Master Of Paradise (5 page)

Tatts was a fascinating place where a man could never be bored if he had the smallest interest in horseflesh. The people alone who gathered here daily were a true representative cross-section of London Society from bookmakers to lords and dukes, who all considered themselves 'men of the turf'.Urchins dashed about taking orders for food, shouting their Cockney slang so rapidly, you had to have a quick ear and an agile brain to grasp their meaning. Nicholas stopped a boy and handed him a couple of shillings. "Get me a meat pie and a glass of beer."

The boy touched his cap. "Right ye are Guv, a smack in the eye and a pig's ear, comin' right up!"

In less than two hours Nicholas saw his horse being led into the sale ring, and was about to press closer into the gathered crowd to listen to the comments and the bidding, when two large constables in their Robert Peel uniforms came up to him.

"In that case, I'll ask you to come along quietly," said the large man, casting a wary eye at Nick's wide-shouldered, powerful build.

"What is the charge, constable?" Nick knew well what the answer would be.

"Horse theft," said the man in threatening tones.

At that precise moment, Nicholas raised his eyes and saw Edward, Prince of Wales, watching him. For a split second he felt a relief at the presence of his influential acquaintance whom he'd played cards with only a few nights back. Then his hopes were dashed as the prince deliberately turned his back on him. Amusement glittered in Nick's eyes. "Put not your trust in princes," he muttered.

Nicholas felt anger.
This is some insane vindictiveness cooked up by that bitch, Lady Pamela and her greedy paramour.
He'd left behind two of his own horses that together were worth ten times what the nag he'd taken was worth. Nick questioned his own wisdom as he bumped along in the wagon with the barred window. Perhaps he should not have come along quietly. Perhaps it would have done him a good deal better to have bolted, but he still clung to the ideals that justice would prevail, and a man was innocent until proven guilty.

The buildings of Newgate Prison formed a four-sided square The House of Session and Newgate Street abutted the College of Physicians and The Old Bailey. Nicholas found himself in Lord Shraftsbury's beloved prison for the night until he could be taken before a magistrate in the Old Bailey the following morning.

He was unceremoniously thrown into the common cell at Newgate, where the gaoler patrolled on a catwalk high above the cell. Nick realized it was a necessity. Any guard would have been killed by the rabble that resided in that befouled hole before the night was out.

The room was already crowded, and Nick surmised that by nightfall they would be packed in like rats. Drunks, prostitutes, thieves, and cut-throats were tossed together in the 'common cell'.
An apt name, indeed.
He knew it would feel like a lifetime before morning arrived and he was taken before the judge.

All his cunning came to the fore as one word drummed in his brain.
Survival!
Nick pushed his way into a corner and slid down with the wall against his back. All eyes were upon him, as he was obviously well-to-do and likely had money lining his pockets.

The sights of these dregs of humanity bothered Nick not at all, nor did he mind overmuch their touch as they brushed shoulders. The hardest thing for him to stomach was the stench. The cell was permeated with eons of urine and excrement, and the bodily odors of the great unwashed rose in a miasma that almost brought tears to the eyes.

The people about him smelled like rotting vegetables. He watched what happened to the weak ones. Young frail women were immediately stripped by older, larger and coarser members of their sex. Drunken men were instantly stripped and searched by those who had their wits about them, and men who found themselves here for the first time were cowed enough to submit to the hardened types who spent most of their lives passing in and out of the place.

Nicholas braced himself for the first assault, which he knew wouldn't be long in coming. A burly, thickset male, with no neck, and the look of a dockside brawler advanced in a threatening manner. Nick hooked his foot behind the man's leg and as he lost his balance and fell onto Nick, he caught him under the chin with an uppercut that sent him with a sickening thud against the flagstones of the cell floor.

Nick nursed his grazed knuckles and kept his eyes open. He saw a guard on the catwalk gesture toward him as he spoke to his fellow warder. Now Nick was being observed from above as well as below. His muscles bunched and he waited. His vigil wasn't a lengthy one. Two cell inhabitants formed a team and approached him from either side. He waited, crouched like a cat, then with a surge upward, he brought his knees up sharply into the groin of the first man, who rolled at his feet with pain. The second he took by the throat and smashed his fist into the large, bulbous nose, instantly covering the knave's face with his own blood.

The ironic part was that if they'd asked Nick for a handout, he'd likely have given them his last guinea with an amused curl of the lip. But lately too many people had decided to take from him what was his by right. The assaulted pair had simply picked on him at the wrong moment.

The two guards above, who'd been waiting for the toff to get dragged from his high horse, were disappointed, but clearly Nicholas saw their reaction and was forewarned. No one approached him the rest of the night, not even the drabs who knew he must have money in his pockets. He had clearly demonstrated that it was going to stay in his pockets, so they gave him a wide berth. They were well occupied most of the night as copulation was freely and openly indulged.

Nick's fit condition enabled him to banish sleep for one night, and in the morning when it was time for him to be taken before the magistrate, the two guards who took him from the common cell were ready for their bit of pleasure. In the long passageway they jostled him and loudly accused him of trying to make a break for it. Dutifully, they brought they billy clubs down about his ears.

Nick was ready for them. He elbowed one in the ribs so viciously, he'd carry the bruise for a month, while the other lost the only two teeth that remained in his head. But they had clubs, they wore hobnailed boots, and they now had their excuse.

The man they dragged before the magistrate was well-bloodied and beaten, but his spirit was undaunted. When Nickolas raised his head, the judge immediately noted three things about the prisoner in the dock. He did not smell, he was expensively clothed, and he had an air of authority.

A young solicitor stepped forward when the bailiff called the prisoner's name, and told the magistrate that his clients were charging the man with theft of a horse.

Without hesitation, Nicholas addressed the judge, "Your Honor, I should like a word with the prosecution, an' it please you."

"That would be highly irregular and out of the common way, but then I suspect you yourself are out of the common way. Permission granted."

The young solicitor, obviously a junior member of the law firm to which Peter Chetwynd belonged, approached Nicholas with a flicker of apprehension.

Nicholas minced no words. "Chetwynd obviously fears me enough to wish me out of the way. He does right to fear me. Once I tell the judge I am Lord Harry's son, he'll do no more than fine me and I have the means to pay that fine. However, if you withdraw the charge on condition the property is returned, I've signed aboard a ship for the colonies that sails tomorrow." The timber of his voice changed. "If that ship sails without me, I shall return to Peacock Hall, pull it down stone by fucking stone, and build a mausoleum for your learned Mr. Chetwynd." Nick smiled through his split lip. "You decide."

The decision was already taken. Any fool could see Nicholas Peacock was dangerous.

As the portal of Newgate opened to release him, Nicholas pulled the collar of his blue jacket tighter against the icy winds that whipped along the bleak street, sending piles of litter spinning in circles about his feet. A deep frown creased his brow; he was not out of the woods yet. A growing apprehension filled him as he thought about his sea chest and the treasure it contained. With all speed he made his way back to the inn where he'd resided since arriving in London.

There was an immediate contretemps as the landlord had rented room number five to another patron. Nicholas was about to separate him from his breath when he caught a significant glance from Nell. He sat down at a table and she popped a pint down in front of him.

"I'll believe ye; 'thousands wouldn't! Ye'll find her greatcoat on me bed. I used it to keep warm last night." She hesitated a second. "There's no chance ye can stay tonight?"

He shook his head. "This is goodbye, Nell. I'm going aboard today, before anything else happens."

She gave him her room key. "Yer stuff's in the room at the end of the 'all. Good luck Nick; I'll miss ye."

Up in her room he washed and dried himself on her meager towel. He donned the warm greatcoat, then unpadlocked the chest to make sure everything was still intact. He took one of the blankets he had purchased and laid it across the foot of the small iron bed, then he shouldered the trunk and headed for the docks. His spirits lifted with each step he took
. Things can only get better.

Nicholas loved the sea. It had a balm that was healing to his soul. At first, he found the work backbreaking and fell exhausted into his hammock at night, but as his muscles toned and his appetite increased, the work became easier and easier for his toughened body. His resolve toughened as well. Never again would he be taken for a fool. In time he would build his own empire, and none would dare take it from him.

Nick celebrated Christmas and his twenty-second birthday in the Azores and reveled in the brilliant sunny days. He listened avidly to stories of America, where he was heading.

On the long night watches he talked with the other men and asked questions of everything from the land, to the food, the climate, and the way of life of the people of the South.

By the time they made port in Bermuda in early January, Nicholas was tanned a deep mahogany, and his shoulders were a few inches broader. He resembled a bronzed god with turquoise eyes; a startling contrast against his dark skin.

When he reached the Port of Charleston, he was excited to experience for himself the richness and color of his chosen land. Nicholas was enchanted. He found himself totally captivated by the languid pace of life, the grinning black faces, and the never-failing sunshine, warm even at the beginning of February. He soaked up and absorbed every detail like a sponge, ever thirsting for new sights, and smells, and tastes to savor.

From the day he saw his first planter mounted on a Thoroughbred arrive in town, followed by his elegant wife and daughters in their carriage, who in turn were followed by a wagon-filled with their black servants, he knew what he was going to be. Deep down inside he believed that slavery was wrong, but here in the South it was an accepted way of life, and when he thought about it, he acknowledged that it was much like the landed aristocracy of England.

It suddenly came to him that he was wasting valuable time. It was as if he emerged from a dreamlike trance that had held him spellbound.
From this moment on I will make every minute, every action, every thought count for something.

Nicholas got into a friendly game of poker, just to learn the ins and outs of the game. Blackjack, he discovered, was his beloved
vingt et un,
and he was delighted that these Southern gentlemen loved to gamble as much as he did.

By the third evening in Charleston, he'd won a horse and a body servant. He felt ambivalent about owning a slave, especially when the ownership paper was made over to him, and he saw in black and white, so to speak, that the man known as Samuel, approximately thirty-five years old, was now the property of Nicholas Peacock.

Samuel was a pleasant-looking man with a high head and an unceasing supply of dignity. He was slim and straight and had a distinguishing touch of gray upon the tight wool of his head. His nose was thin and hooked, and he looked down it often.

Nicholas soon discovered that Samuel was going to be one of the most significant encounters he would make in his life. He was a never-ending surprise. He knew everything that was worth knowing about everywhere and everyone. He had spent his life in the homes of rich Southern families, where gossip had been a way of life. Nicholas was amused to discover that Samuel was an unmitigated snob, who looked down upon no-account white trash, field hands, house servants,
et al.

The two men formed an instant bond with a strong rapport, and amazingly they had no trouble understanding each other. The crisp, clean phrases of the Englishman acted as counterpoint to the soft drawl of his man-servant, and Nicholas had the distinct impression that Samuel owned him rather than vice-versa.