The Blighted Cliffs (33 page)

This
sounded like malicious tattle to me - not that I mind it as a rule,
but I needed little imagination to see that Crawley, in a distressed
state, would not have fitted well with Davenant's circle.

Davenant,
however, seemed to place great store by it. 'That is why I find
myself in agreement with the old toad over there.' He jerked a finger
to where Sir Lawrence and Mazard were in intent conversation. 'I'd
say that there is a rat in our defences, you know, but it's not you.
You've not got the spirit for it, I think. I'd bet a filly to a
farthing that it's Crawley.'

It
sounded like a gallon of pure nonsense to me. Crawley might have some
curious habits, but he seemed the least likely traitor I could
imagine. Not that that made me any happier to sail with him, knowing
what he'd done to the
Glorious
.
Perhaps it was just as well that
Orestes
was laid up in harbour. But as I've said before, pealing my superiors
to their superiors is too dangerous a game for me. I tried to change
the subject.

'What,
if I may enquire, sir, was that business with the French lugger this
afternoon?'

Davenant
looked at me crookedly, then raised his nose and tapped it
significantly. 'Navy business. Highest urgency. Sealed dispatches,
and from Whitehall, not just the Admiralty. All the way down from on
high. Secret mission, you know - can't say more.' He was slurring
fast. I doubted he could have said more - coherently, at least –
even if he'd not been bound to secrecy.

'They
say it's the prisoners, of course,' he continued, finding the
strength to ramble on somehow. 'Transport board, exchange of
officers, that sort of thing. But you and I know different.' He
winked, but had difficulty reopening the eye. 'Frenchy handed over
documents, secret documents, went straight on the coach to London.
It's peace, of course. That weasel of a minister Fox'll have it at
any price.' He put an arm around me. 'And where does that leave us,
the warriors? No prizes. No promotions. No glory. Just endless
ghastly balls, with jumped-up bankers sticking their teeth in you.
Peace. Ghastly.'

He
put down his glass, more loudly than was polite, muttered something
about his breeches being too tight, and stumbled away.

'I
tell you, Cunningham, you worry too much.'

Just
as I was wondering where to amuse myself next, I heard the name of my
antagonist close over my shoulder. Fortunately, when I turned, I
found that a suit of armour shielded me from his view. He and Mazard
were talking in low voices.

'If
that pimp Fox negotiates a peace, you'll say I was right to worry,
Mazard,' Sir Lawrence was saying. Speaking quietly did not come easy
to him, particularly when he was agitated. 'You may be able to
stomach the loss, but I'll feel it hard enough.'

'Of
course I do not want to lose so much,' said Mazard, with the air of
someone trying to calm a petulant child. 'But peace brings its own
opportunities.'

'Nothing
half as neat as what we have now.'

'But
what will stop that? Governments can exchange pieces of paper, but
paper is cheap, and words are easily forgotten. Britain desires
greatness, France desires greatness; they cannot both be great, and
neither will choose to be humble. Britain cannot be defeated at sea,
nor France on land, so I assure you, Cunningham, this war will still
be being fought by our grandsons when we are long retired.'

Sir
Lawrence grunted. 'You had better be right, Mazard. Much depends on
it.'

'I
am right,' said Mazard simply. 'And even if I were not, I never make
a loan without security. Nothing will change, I guarantee it. Will
you drink with me to that?'

'It
hardly seems decent to have a drink on Drake's account.' Sir Lawrence
gave a grim laugh. 'Not after I hanged him.'

Mazard
was philosophical. 'We all reap as we deserve. And we, you can be
sure, will most certainly continue to do so.'

They
moved towards the punchbowl while I watched from the dark corner
where I had retreated, wondering whether I would have gained any more
sense from that conversation had I not indulged so freely in the
refreshments. I saw Mazard looking about, and shrank further back. He
did not seem the sort of man to welcome being overheard, however
nonsensical his words.

Back
in the card room the sets had got themselves together; eager to keep
well out of Sir Lawrence's path, I joined them, taking the place of a
recently ruined young sprat who'd departed in tears. The seat was
conveniently close to the punchbowl, which might have contributed to
his downfall, but I found myself on a run which even an increasingly
merry disposition could not halt. From this I deduced it owed more to
luck - for once - than skill. I had the feeling that I was not
matched against the worthiest opponents – the play seemed
louder, and more expensive, at the other tables - but I collected a
useful enough pile of pennics and half-crowns before at last my
bladder compelled me to give up my chair.

I
made my way out through a small door that led on to the stable yard.
There was much laughter and merriment here, almost more than inside,
and shadowy figures milled everywhere: men, mostly, but some women,
knotted together in small groups, or leaning against the walls in
solitude, or on their knees puking into a corner.

Across
by the stables, a line of men stood over a pile of hay, their legs
open, and I joined them. From one of the stalls in front of us there
came bestial noises of a peculiarly human variety.

'Ah,
Jerrold. Enjoying yourself are you?'

It
was Colonel Copthorne, the jovial officer who had chaired our meeting
at the castle, standing next to me pissing into the straw. Steam rose
in the cold night.

'Most
entertaining.' My form at the card table had improved my humour, as
had the attentions of the several young ladies it had won me.

'Funny
how we gorge ourselves like this in the name of feeding the hungry,'
Copthorne reflected. 'All a sham, of course.'

'Is
it?' I felt little surprise that a society run by Mazard should evade
its charitable mission.

'Absolutely,
Lieutenant. What, after all, would you expect of a benevolent society
founded by a smuggler?'

'Charity
for the bibulous?'

'Almost.'
Copthorne buttoned himself. 'But no. Drake established the whole
thing for men with no other means of support. No other legal means of
support, you follow? Meant the smugglers could eat when their ships
didn't come in, and eat a damn sight better when they did. And the
good folk of Dover could satisfy themselves that they had a clear
conscience, one that wouldn't attract the attentions of Drake and his
gang.'

'A
neat little scheme. Where do all those five shillings go now?'

'Couldn't
say. The society's been quiet since Drake danced the gallows. Good
fun, though. Wouldn't you say, General?'

Looking
up, I saw that I had not been promoted: Copthorne had switched his
conversation to the man on his other side, a new arrival.

I
could see little enough of him with Copthorne in the way, and the
circumstances did not permit a gentleman to stare too closely, but I
reckoned he was at least as tall as I, with a slight stoop and an
obvious nose.

'It
passes,' was his icy verdict. 'I have little patience with these
provincial affairs. Too many shopkeepers trying to auction off their
daughters.'

He
finished his business and tidied himself away, then retrieved his
drink from a mounting block. Although our breath made clouds in the
cold, he showed no intention of returning inside. I was all of a mind
to tempt my rare luck at the cards again, but Copthorne was already
making an introduction.

'General
Wellesley, allow me to present to you Lieutenant Jerrold. Lieutenant,
this is General Sir Arthur Wellesley, lately returned from Hanover.'

We
batted through the ritual pleasantries, each as scrupulously hollow
as the other, establishing along the way that indeed he was an army
officer and I in the navy; that we were both in rude health; and that
we had little else in common beyond the fact that we pissed in the
same pot.

'And
did you trounce the Corsican harlequin in Hanover, sir?' I enquired,
less respectfully than I might have. This stable yard cum pissoir cum
drawing room cum brothel lacked much by way of formality.

'I
did not,' Wellesley responded. 'Damn fool errand, sending an army to
Hanover when it needs to march through Prussia to get anywhere.
Prussians wouldn't let us through - Buonaparte's apparently promised
Hanover to them, as soon as he conquers it - so we came back,
empty-handed and seasick.'

'Perhaps
Lieutenant Jerrold, being a navy man, cannot imagine having to seek
out the enemy,' said Copthorne smoothly. 'It seems all they need do
is sail out of harbour to find them.'

Wellesley
grunted, boredom evident across his hawk-billed face.

'And
what brings you to Dover now?' I asked. I could not turn my back and
cut a major-general, however pompous, and it was too cold to keep
quiet.

'I
am travelling back to London, and then on to my next command. In
Hastings.'

I
almost laughed. 'That's a poor turn, sir. You must have truly wrecked
matters in Hanover to find yourself stationed there.' Hastings, as I
understood it, had all the stigmas of Dover without the excitement.

Wellesley
did not look happy at the prospect either, but he looked even less
happy with my impertinent talk. 'Hastings, need I remind you, is
where the French last successfully invaded, seven hundred and forty
years ago. Some would count it an honour to command the first line of
defence if they came again, to win the battle King Harold so
infamously lost. Particularly if the navy fails to stop Buonaparte
getting there.'

'And
you have surely heard of General Wellesley's heroic exploits in
India?' added Copthorne, looking none too pleased with me. He was
glancing meaningfully towards the door.

'India?'
I echoed, with reckless hilarity. 'India, and then Hanover, and then
Hastings. What a miserable run of it you've had, sir. Nothing on
earth could entice me to India.' Although I knew well my uncle might
soon be trying.

'My
brother is the governor-general,' said Wellesley contemptuously. I
think he was unaccustomed to being gibed at by his juniors.

'All
the worse. So much interest at his disposal, and the best he can
manage is those dungheaps. I fear you've played your cards damn
poorly, sir.'

'I
fear, sir, that the same could be said of you.' There was poison on
his tongue now, and having since read of the man's notorious duels, I
am relieved he took no further exception to me.

I
shook my head vigorously. 'Not at all, sir, not at all. I've played
my cards damn well. Think I'll play them again, actually, if you'll
excuse me. Goodnight.'