Absolute Honour (6 page)

A nod. ‘He will. And that’s where we will have him. As a privateer, he may have three times our numbers—’

‘Will have,’ Red Hugh commented.

‘Aye, will have. But three to one are English odds, by God. Our history is full of fighting at such odds and triumphing.’

As I am sure French history is full of the reverse, Jack thought.

‘So we’ll let them come aboard and drive them back with our ferocity,’ Link concluded. ‘What do you say?’

Jack looked at Red Hugh. The Irishman was finding some detail on his forefinger fascinating. ‘And why should we fight?’ he
said softly.

‘Wh- why?’ The word obviously stuck in the Captain’s throat. ‘The men look up to you, sir. You are both soldiers. They would
…’ Their silence provoked him. ‘You would be prisoners of the French?’

‘I have been before. Charming people. We’ll drink far better on their ship than we do on ours, Jack.’ He leaned forward to
push the rum mug away from him. ‘And, with a cartel, we’ll be free within months of reaching a port.’

Of course! Relief filled Jack with the thought. Prisoners
were exchanged on cartel all the time. Suddenly French wine and a swift release seemed preferable to even one broadside and
hot work on a sloping deck.

Link was still finding the Irishman’s reluctance astonishing. ‘But, sir! Sir! What about your honour?’

‘Ah, honour. Weren’t we just discussing that, Jack? Now, I’ve always thought that honour was a somewhat flexible thing. One
man’s conceit of it is very different to another’s.’

The Captain gave up any pretence of politeness. ‘An Englishman’s may be very different to an
Irishman’s,’
he exploded.

Red Hugh’s voice was a soft contrast. ‘Now, you see, there we have an example of that very flexibility. You may call me a
coward and I may choose to see that as an insult to my honour or as a compliment to my good sense. I may then choose to fight
you for it or no. But to impugn my honour due to the country of my birth is, well,’ he rose slowly, ‘quite another matter.’

Link instinctively began to rub his wrist. ‘I … I … meant no disrespect,’ he muttered, looking hastily at Jack. ‘But you,
sir. You are an officer in the King’s army. Surely it is your duty to fight?’

Jack was about to speak when Red Hugh sat again, laying a hand on his forearm. ‘It is his duty not to. On two counts.’ Jack
listened as a lawyer’s tones filled the Irish voice.
‘Primus,
he is a messenger of that King, his duty thus to bear the dispatches back, not stop to get involved in every local quarrel.
Secundus,’
he raised his voice and hand to override Link’s protest, ‘he has stated time and again that you are about a trade he abhors.
Ergo,
honour demands that he does not help you conserve the goods that will pay for further slave trading voyages.
Quod est demonstrandum.’

‘Erat,’
whispered Jack. ‘You’ve already demonstrated it.’

‘Damn! Age has rotted my declensions.’

Link’s mouth was wide, his eyes confused. Finally, he spluttered at Jack, ‘Well, sir?’

Jack looked between the two, shrugged. ‘What he said.’

Before another squawk could come, Red Hugh went on, ‘Now, personally, I’ve never been adverse to a little scrap. And it’s
true my … business would prefer that I made for Bristol directly and not via a French prison. Since we have discounted honour
and duty as reasons to fight, may I suggest another thing that might – just might, mark – persuade the lad and myself.’

Link looked cowed by the verbal assault. ‘What?’ he sighed.

Red Hugh smiled. ‘Money.’

‘Money?’

‘Aye. I’ve always found it an excellent recruiter in the past. When honour’s honoured and valour is cooled, money’s still
there, keeping one warm.’

A short time later, pausing only for a brief conversation with Engledue, Jack followed Red Hugh as he wove through the stacked
goods on the gundeck. Each was clutching a piece of paper, intent on stowing it safely in their chests.

‘Now, lad, did I not say leave it to me? I’ve taken a great care of your future.’ He tapped the paper in Jack’s hand with
his own.

Jack looked down at the contract Link had been forced to sign. He’d tried to fob them off with a cockswain’s one and a half
share but Red Hugh had insisted on a lieutenant’s six or they’d sit out the fight.

‘What could this mean?’

‘Why, Jack, six shares of a rich prize?’ The Irishman’s eyes glowed even in the dim light of the deck. ‘Did you never hear
of the
Nuestra Señora de Cabodonga?
Taken by Captain Anson in forty-three?’ Jack shook his head. ‘It was a treasure ship, lad, on the return from New Spain.
Loaded with gold
and silver. The common sailors took close to two hundred pounds apiece. That’s nine years pay for ’em. But the officers got
not much short of five thousand.’

Jack whistled. Five thousand pounds would set a man up for life. Then he shrugged. ‘But a treasure ship does not pursue us.
It’s a French privateer, which probably has empty holds and hungry men.’ They’d stopped by his sea chest and Jack pulled the
key from his pocket.

‘Depends. Perhaps she is returning to port, bulging with loot; and us the transport she requires to help carry it. If we take
her, she could still make us rich men.’

‘Perhaps.’ Jack dropped the paper in, re-locked the chest, stood. ‘But I have fought the French, as I know you have. They
are not such sorry dogs as Link would have us believe. And with so many more men …’

Red Hugh nodded. ‘It’s true. Except I have ways of evening the numbers.’

‘What ways?’

The Irishman smiled, crooked a finger. ‘Let me show you.’

His goods were stowed further forward. When he had locked his own paper away, in a chest considerably more ancient and battered
than Jack’s, he turned to a large square crate beside it. ‘Pass me that jemmy, will you, dear soul?’ he murmured.

The carpenter’s tool was handed across, its flat end pressed under the lid. The top was carefully prised up. Then each side
was also pulled away, the back laid down. What looked like a mound of straw lay exposed.

Jack sneezed three times. ‘What will this do?’ he asked. ‘Make them too busy wiping their noses to fight?’

‘It’s in the nature of a Trojan horse. For what’s within …’ Red Hugh said, adding, ‘Oi! Get out of it, you beast.’ Jeremiah
the goat had appeared at the scent of this new provender and received a kick in its haunches for its pains. It retired a few
feet, regarding them balefully as it munched the
strands it had seized. Meanwhile, Red Hugh was carefully pulling the straw aside. Soon a stack of wooden racks, three levels
deep, was revealed. On each rack, spherical objects the size of small footballs were wrapped in sacking.

‘What are they?’ asked Jack stretching out his hand to the nearest one.

‘Grenades,’ said the Irishman, laughing as Jack snatched his hand back and took a step away. ‘Phish, Jack, never fear. These
boys are only dangerous when they are introduced to the fuses.’ He kicked another smaller box to the side. ‘Bit like the Presbyterians
and my boys back home. Only make trouble when we meet.’ He reached forward, slipping the sack off one and picking it up. The
dark iron globe sat in his hand, just overlapping the palm. He mimed a lob. ‘Play any cricket, have you?’

‘I was in the team at Westminster. A batsman though.’

‘A pity. For the pitching’s much the same. Sure, I’ve taken a few wickets myself in my time.’

Jack was not sure if he was speaking in metaphors. ‘You carry grenades with you.’

It was not a question. ‘Oagh,’ came the reply. ‘You never know when you’ll have need of a good grenade.’ He noticed Jack’s
look. ‘I told you I was an engineer. These are the best things for blasting through rock.’

‘Of course they are. And these are good grenades?’

‘The best. Made them up myself.’ He spun one up in the air, caught it behind his back. ‘These on the top rack are pure powder
with a heavy case. Good for blowing things up. These,’ he picked one off the second level, ‘are full of shot.’ He shook one.
‘Plays havoc with tight bunches of men.’

‘Or rocks?’

The Irishman was not discountenanced. ‘Or rocks, indeed.’

‘And these?’ Jack pointed to the bottom layer.

‘Pot à feu.
Have a sniff.’

Jack did and made a face.

‘That’s right. Mainly sulphur and stuff. Makes a right old whiff. Did you never make stink bombs at that fancy school of yours?’

‘We made do with the latrines.’ Jack shook his head. ‘And are these ready for use?’

‘The powder will have settled. Tends to go into its separate ingredients then it doesn’t go off. So I’ll give each one a shake
in a bit, then add these fuses.’ He opened the box, and showed Jack what looked like a pipe bowl with a straight wooden stem
below it. ‘When we’re up top, I’ll tell you how long to wait before you throw ’em.’

‘You mean, once they’re lit, you wait?’ said Jack, appalled.

‘Oh, aye, unless you want ’em thrown back at ye. Remember, I made each of these fuses myself. It’s a science. The right mix
gives you the exact time and I’ve set each rack to go off differently. These beauties, for example,’ he waved to the ball-filled
bombs on the second racks, ‘have ten-second fuses. So you hold them till the count of eight then let fly.’

‘Eight?’

‘Haven’t I held it till eight and a half if I wanted to explode it over the head of an enemy platoon. And didn’t One-Handed
Tom often hold it till nine?’

‘One-Handed Tom?’

‘Well,’ the Irishman grinned, ‘he got careless.’ He mimed another lob.

‘Does one have to throw with one’s left hand?’

‘No, no. ’Tis only myself that’s shaped that way, despite the priests who tied my arm to my side to try to cure me of Satan’s
sign.’ He grinned. ‘Old Nick doesn’t affect the grenade throwing. But when I get a sword in my hand, the devil’s in the blade,
certain.’

Jack nodded. He had fought left-handers at Angelo’s school in the Haymarket. They were indeed devilishly tricky.

They heard a soft footfall. McRae appeared. ‘Cap’n says
he’s calling us together shortly. Going to ask us if we wants to fight, I ’spect.’ He had tobacco in his mouth, gathered phlegm
then leaned to the gun-port to spit, stopping when he remembered that these were caulked up. Swallowing, he continued, ‘You’ll
tell him to fuck hisself, won’t you, McClune?’

‘Maybe not, boyo.’ He stepped closer to the man. ‘For hasn’t the Lieutenant recognized yon ship. Says it’s the
Robuste,
out of Nantes this whole year. It’ll have holds crammed with goods.’ He stepped away and Jack could see the sudden gleam
in the sailor’s eyes. ‘Tell the Captain we’ll be up presently.’

‘Right then.’

As the sailor moved away to the stair, Red Hugh sighed. ‘Most lads will fight the Frogs if they think they have even a little
chance. But I wish I had something other than greed with which to inspire them.’

‘Like what?’

‘Ah, lad. You should have seen me in the uniform of a Grenz Grenadier. With my Khobuk hat, my dolman, pantaloons and sash,
my long moustaches and my hair done just so …’ He corkscrewed a twist of his red hair up beside his face. ‘The French usually
ran the moment they looked upon us.’

Jack smiled, then remembered: he had seen the French run, at Quebec, from the impoverished line of red-clad men who had waited
till they were impossibly close before they fired.

‘Red-clad,’ he murmured.

‘Aye, Jack?’ came the reply, mistaking him.

He looked at the Irishman. ‘You may not have your uniform. But I have mine.’

He turned, walked back to his own trunk. He had it open by the time Red Hugh joined him. He lifted the jacket. It was more
bright scarlet than russet red, having never been
exposed to weather. Jack had found a wonderful tailor in Newport and, since his old Dragoon uniform had been stripped off
him by the Abenaki, he had commissioned this one. He wasn’t going to present himself to the King in the dead Lobster-back’s
castaways he’d been issued with in Quebec. He’d traded the tailor ten ermine skins, a fortune, but he’d got what he paid for.
The cloth could not have been bettered, nor better cut, in Jermyn Street. The silver buttons needed a polish, as did the front
plate on the cavalryman’s cap, so they’d provide a brighter contrast to the black facings at lapel and cuff, the black of
his regiment, the 16th Light Dragoons.

Red Hugh was peering over his shoulder. ‘You are not thinking of wearing that, are you, son?’

‘Why not? Were you not just wishing for your old uniform?’

‘But mine was green and I was dressed like hundreds of my fellows when I wore it. You will stand out, and draw bullets as
fast as shit draws flies.’ He tried to pull the material from Jack’s hand. ‘No, lad. Keep to your sailor’s gear and look like
everyone else.’

Jack rubbed the material for a long moment. ‘You wish me to skulk.’

‘Blend in—’

Jack raised a hand. ‘Forgive me, sir. I will, of course, take your advice in all matters pertaining to grenades. But I have
a uniform here, the uniform of my regiment. To have it and not fight in it would be a dishonour to it. To my regiment. To
the name of Absolute.’ He rose and looked straight into the Irishman’s eyes. ‘This is
my
point of honour, sir. And I will not budge from it.’

‘By God.’ Red Hugh’s eyes filled with light and moisture. Then, to Jack’s great surprise, he leaned forward, grabbed Jack
by the back of his head and kissed him smack on the mouth. ‘By God, this
is
indeed the spirit that conquered
Canada. And I can see the half Irishman in you, plain as day. ’Twill be an honour to fight beside you – even if you’ll be
drawing half their cannon and all their sharpshooters.’

He laughed and, after a moment of reconsideration, Jack did, too. ‘I’ll see you aloft, Red Hugh.’

‘Aloft, Black Jack.’

The Irishman made for the stairs and Jack began to dress, slowly, enjoying the quality of silk and serge as he pulled each
item on. If the cavalry sabre he’d acquired in Newport was not of the first order, it had an edge that was keen enough and
nicks that attested to its experience. And he had other weapons, too. Reaching again into the trunk, he pulled out his tomahawk,
thrust it beside the sword into his belt. Then, as he heard the pipes call ‘All hands’, the cries of ‘Bundle up’ urging all
men below to the deck, he stretched behind the sea chest and brought out the rifle for which he’d traded five flagons of rum
with the Niantic Indians of Newport.