Jack Frake (10 page)

A mad idea occurred to Jack Frake: he could accomplish two acts of justice tonight — deliver his note about Isham Leith to the vicar of St. Brea’s, and perhaps rescue Blair from the constable’s jail.

The first task was easy enough. He located the rectory in back of the church. It was more sumptuous than Parson Parmley’s, built of cut stone. All its lights were out but one. He went to the front door, took out his note, and slipped it under the carved oaken portal. On the door was a brass knocker. He reached up, took hold of it, and banged it three times. Then he turned and ran.

He knew the location of the constable’s house, on a side street close to the ironmonger’s, next door to the milliner’s shop. He darted across Jetty Street, then ran two blocks up, and turned a corner. He stopped in his tracks when he saw a mass of figures gathered beneath the extinguished cresset that stood in front of the constable’s house. Even as he noticed it, the mass turned and moved in his direction.

A press-gang.

He turned again and ran across Jetty into the shadows, then up the cobblestone sidewalk in the direction of the Sea Siren. As he passed an alley, a man careened out of it and knocked him flat on his back. The man yelled in desperate panic, but did not stop to see what he had collided with. Even as he got back onto his feet, Jack Frake could hear his retreating footsteps down Jetty.

A hand reached out and lifted him up by his jacket collar, then threw him against the wall of the building.

“Powder monkey!” exclaimed a voice.

When his sight had recovered, Jack Frake looked up and recognized Bosun Jones. Behind him stood three other sailors from the press-gang, one of whom carried a flambeau. The man leered down at him and chuckled. A white rag was wrapped around his injured wrist, and his hand held a short iron bar, the end of which he tapped loudly in his other palm.

“I warned you not to let me catch you out-a-doors, you little bastard!” said Jones. “That’s the second recruit you cost us! You ain’t got no shovel now, and no bloody admiral to save your hide!” Without warning, he struck one of the boy’s knees with the bar. Stunned by the pain, Jack Frake fell back on the wall and slid down its length. Before he could raise his head, the bar swished through the air again and struck him above the ear.

Before he lost consciousness, he imagined he heard the cocking of several pistols, and a voice saying, “Hands up, gents, or you each get a third eye!”

“W
HAT ARE WE IN IT FOR, ANYWAY
?”

“Well, it’s like this: Frederick of Prussia claims Silesia because of hereditary alliances and secret agreements and natural rights, and because he says it was purchased by a Hohenzollern a long time ago, only Silesia happens to be Queen Maria Theresa’s of Bohemia and Hungary and Austria, because she became Holy Roman Empress — or rather her husband, the Grand Duke Francis Stephen of Tuscany, became Holy Roman Emperor — ”

Another voice interjected, “It’s Maria Theresa that’s writing the scenes in that palace, I’ll wager you on that.”

“— And all this because Charles of Austria and Frederick William of Prussia winked out within a week of each other about four years ago. But Charles Albert of Bavaria, who’s also calling himself Emperor, and Philip of Spain and Augustus of Poland, who think
they
ought to be Emperor, too, are claiming the crown, because of last female or male descendants or some such, so they’ve all declared war on Austria and sided with Frederick of Prussia.”

“I was wonderin’ where he got to.”

“Now, Louis of France has sided with Frederick, for many reasons, to be sure, but
any
to oppose us would suit him.”

“That Louis! Seems he’s ruled by love and hate: love of petticoats and hatred of us.”

“He’s ruining France with those passions.”

“More to our gain.”

“Mudlark! An increase in taxes to fight the bloody French is no gain for anyone!”

“Our gain, I says! We’ll have more to row in from the merchantmen!”

“And I say there’ll be less of it to row in!”

“Who’s his latest tart?”

“Madame Jeanne Antionette Poisson, Marquise de Pompadour.”

“So you might say she’s
poison
to Louis’s purposes?”

“What a cheap crack! You ought to be dunked!”

“This Frederick: Is he the dead one or the live one?”

“The live one, silly. I hear he reads philosophy and composes music and writes verse.”

“His father used to beat people with his cane if they didn’t look dignified enough. A real cracker, that one.”

“All those German royals are crackers! You’d think they recruited them from Bedlam. And here we got a pair of them lording it at Windsor!”

“Why are we siding with the old biddy?”

“Lud! Why, to oppose France and Louis, too. After all, Louis backed Young Charley last month. That broke a treaty. He should’ve served notice on the whole lot of Stuarts. And because Pelham and Pitt don’t want to see Frederick become too powerful. And there you have it. Couldn’t be simpler.”

“Maria Theresa? She’s no old biddy, from what I hear. Quite an eyeful, they says.”

“How many men we got to defend our shores?”

“Not more than ten thousand, I’ve heard. Probably fewer.”

“And when they send some of them over to get their arses kicked by Frederick and Saxe, there’ll be fewer to deal with the Tartans, you’ll see. Word is there’s trouble brewin’ in the Highlands.”

“Who’s to lead them in this arse-kickin’?”

“They say Cumberland the Uncouth himself, George’s favorite son.”

“Oh, God! Double kicks!”

“That’s slander! He’s an able man! He proved that at Dettingen!”

“You mean he shared the King’s luck at Dettingen! If the French hoof weren’t so eager to give our lads the quick shave, and waited until Noailles could kick George’s arse, we’d be paying royal ransoms for the King and his bloody favorite! It was all luck, I tell you.”

“The King led the countercharge himself, and his son commanded the First Guards, which was in the thick of it.”

“Thousands drowned in the Main River, they says, runnin’ from old George.”

“
I
say the Duke’ll sweep Saxe and Frederick and all the rest of ’em right off the field and into the river, just like his father did at Dettingen!”

“Says you! A guinea on Frederick
or
Saxe inside of a year, and Cumberland sailin’ back with his tails pinned to his ears!”

“You’re on! Here, any other takers!”

The conversation disintegrated into a babble of competing voices, and thereafter Jack Frake paid it little attention. The exchange about Maria Theresa and Frederick and the war was typical of the talk he heard in the Sea Siren, as much of it as he was able to catch while hurrying about his job.

“Quiet down, lads, or you’ll wake the boy.”

The sound of
that
voice caused Jack Frake’s body to stiffen and his eyes to open. The first thing he saw was the roof of a cave. The next thing was Mr. Blair’s face. The man stared down at him from where he sat on a stool. Blair smiled. There was something different about his face; it was paler in the light of the torches and lanterns that were fixed to the limestone walls; the eyebrows were not as thick and the moles on his cheeks were gone.

Then he heard a creak of leather and noticed another man near the straw mattress on which he lay, and glanced up. He had black marbles for eyes, a stern, rugged face, and a tight, grim mouth. He stood looking down at Jack with a trace of detached amusement, his long greatcoat open, his fists planted on his hips. The light reflected off the inlaid silver in the grips of a pair of pistols tucked into his belt. The man’s eyes narrowed in response to Jack Frake’s scrutiny, as though he knew what the boy was thinking. “Curtain,” he said.

Blair rose and fixed a curtain of burlap over the entrance of what Jack Frake now realized was an alcove in a larger cave. The light dimmed, then returned as Blair lit a lantern, which he hung on another peg in the stone wall. He sat down again. “How’s your head, Jack?” he asked.

Jack Frake sat up on the mattress. He felt a slight throbbing on the left side of his skull. He put a hand to it and located a swelling beneath his hair. “Almost better,” he answered.

“Thanks to a generous portion of Dover’s powder. You’re still in pain — that bosun whacked you hard — but the opium and Indian root take off
the edge. You’ll feel nothing in a day or two.”

“What happened? Where am I?”

“My, er, friends rescued me from Constable Skeats’s quarters. Then we rescued you, collected your things and mine from the inn, and brought you here. You’ve been flickering in and out for almost a day now.”

“I was coming to see you.”

“To see me?”

“I thought I could do something to get you out.”

“Thanks again,” chuckled Blair. “The Admiral and his aides had retired to their inn hours earlier, and Commissioner Pannell and his men went to see some ladies to celebrate my capture. They didn’t get much from me except an incredible elaboration of my Boston-Bristol story, and I suppose that tired them. As time went on I imagine the questioning would’ve become much less cordial. We trussed up Mr. Skeats and his wife and left them a shilling for their trouble.” Blair glanced up to his companion, who remained silent. “As we came out on Jetty, we saw the press-gang cornering you. Didn’t look like fair odds, so we decided to even them up.”

“Was there a fight?”

“No, thank the Lord. Bosun Jones and his gang were too stunned. We left them in the alley gagged and bound together in knots I’ll bet they never heard of. For good measure, I whacked Jones once or twice in your name. Don’t think he’ll bully another scullion any time soon who’s got so many uncles and cousins.”

Jack Frake stared at Blair for a moment, and remembered what else was missing from the man. “You don’t have that funny tongue.”

“My Scot’s brogue?” chuckled Blair. “A mere theatrical illusion, but Admiral Harle and the entire company of the inn were a commendable audience.”

“What’s your real name?”

The silent man raised a finger, silencing Blair, then jerked his head, and the two went out past the curtain. Jack Frake noticed that all his belongings were heaped on the cave floor near the mattress. As he took an inventory of his possessions, he could hear a whispered discussion taking place beyond the curtain above the murmur of dozens of other voices.

The men returned a moment later. The friendliness of Blair’s face was tempered now by a seriousness that matched the silent man’s. He sat on his stool and looked at Jack Frake as a man looks at a man. “You’ll get an answer to that question and others I’m sure you’re bound to ask, but you’re
to know there’ll be but one of two consequences: You’ll be turned out of here, or you’ll be staying. If you’re turned out, we’ll blindfold you and put you on a country road and you’ll be on your own. If you stay, you’ll take the pledge. It’ll be your decision.”

Blair paused. “You can’t go back to the Sea Siren. That bosun will want to kill you now, and that Lieutenant Farbrace hasn’t forgotten you, either, and the
Rover
will be at anchor at Gwynnford for a few days before pushing off to Spithead or Portsmouth. Did you deliver that note to the vicar? I take it that’s why you were out.”

Jack Frake nodded.

“So there’s another reason why you can’t go back. Vicar Heskett and this Parmley of yours were friends, I hear, and so he’ll pester Skeats and Sheriff Prebble until they do something about it. If the best thing happens and this Isham Leith is arrested on the captain’s evidence, you’ll be found somehow — you’re a missing mother’s son and a stranger in Gwynnford — and hauled in as a witness. Remember: Venable saw
you
on that road, too. Your mother’ll be questioned as an accomplice, whether she had anything to do with the murder or not. And if Leith is questioned but talks himself out of charges, he’ll come looking for you. And there you are.” With another glance at the silent man, Blair added, “I’m telling you all this just to lay out the full course. My friend here says you can stay a day or two until your head’s clear again, ignorant of our names.” Blair paused, then exclaimed, “Bosh! This is useless! How can he know to think hard when there’s nothing for him to think on?”

“He knows our faces,” growled the silent man. But after a moment he said, “All right. Tell him your name.”

Blair rose and doffed his hat. “Rory O’Such. Also Jack Darling, Methuselah Redmagne, and Vivian Crisp, and now Matthew Blair — it all depends on which town I happen to be passing through. At your service.”

Jack Frake blinked. “What name were you born with?” he asked, astounded by the number of names.

“Unfortunately, John Smith. All my efforts to imbue that name with dreadful connotations and romantic allure have failed miserably. Thus, my civil list of preferred
nominae
.”

“Why?”

“To elude capture, to confound the sheriffs and the riding officers of the law, to charm the ladies, but, above all, to entertain myself.”

A stone of thrilling fear seemed to fall from his heart to the pit of his
stomach. Jack Frake turned to face the second man. “And you?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Osbert Augustus Magnus Skelly,” he said.

“Margrave of Cornwall,” added Smith with respectful irony.

“Why so many names?”

“My parents thought if they gave me great names, I would become a great man.”

“It seems you’ve fulfilled their designs,” remarked Smith.

“They would doubt that, were they still alive,” answered Skelly. He bent down and put his hands on his knees to scowl at the boy. “You
know
who I am, don’t you, lad?”

“Yes, sir. The great smuggler.”

Skelly jerked back to his full height, as though insulted. “I’m that, by one set of mouths. By another, I’m villainous scum, fit only to be flogged and hanged without benefit of clergy.” He grinned. “What do
you
think?”

Jack Frake shrugged. “I don’t know you, so I can’t judge.”

Skelly’s mouth cracked in the suggestion of a smile. “Well, here’s someone who’s master of his own eyes.”