Rory's Fortune Page 9

  ‘Yes, that’s true. But it’ll have to be broken gently to him, for he’s got a stubborn streak in him. And the pity of it is, he’s an honest lad.’

  ‘You say she’s got him fixed?’

  ‘Yes, she’s got him fixed, in any case she’s got him fixed by carrying the baccy. But should he try to get out of that, there’s his name at the bottom of a paper.’

  ‘Oh, not that old trick.’

  ‘Aye; she still works it and to some effect, where she thinks they’re gullible and won’t fight back. But I’ve told her she’s picked the wrong one in this lad, for what I’ve seen of him he’s got spirit, and he’ll fight her in his own way, not knowing that he’s bound to lose in the end…Do you know how she got her latest contact in Plymouth?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Huh! Talk about a mind; she should have been a general, with the manoeuvres she gets up to. You’ll never guess what her latest was. She staged a shanghai-ing of a fellow for the navy; then, of course, Alex came to the rescue and brought him to the house, and she hid him for two or three days before sending him off to live in Ireland—it was the only place she hadn’t a contact.’

  ‘Dear, dear God, that woman!’

  Rory was saying the same words to himself. That woman. She was a fiend, but if she thought she had got him into her clutches she was making a mistake. He wasn’t having any of their monkey business and getting himself transported. By no, lad! He’d tell them so right away. And at this he walked forward into the room, startling the two men for a moment; then Ben laughed and said, ‘You’ve slept, boy, haven’t you?’

  Rory glared at him. ‘Never mind how I slept; I didn’t sleep long enough, that’s evident, I’ve heard what you’ve just been sayin’. And let me tell you I’m havin’ none of it, I’m not in any of your smugglin’ rackets.’

  The two men exchanged glances before Lawrence said, ‘Boy, whether you like it or not you’re in. But I know how you feel, we both know how you feel. We’re not bad men…’

  ‘Well, you’re not good ’uns, either of you.’

  ‘What do you think of your master, John Cornwallis?’

  ‘You leave me master out of this, me master’s the best man walkin’. Now you leave him out…’ He paused, then looked swiftly from one to the other, and Ben said, ‘Yes, yes, now you’re thinking, boy, aren’t you? Your master’s a good man, yet he sends you right down to Devon to May Bluett’s house, doesn’t he?’

  ‘By what I can gather he’s been tricked an’ all.’

  Again the men exchanged glances; and now it was the Frenchman who answered, saying, ‘Strangely, he’s about the only one of us who hasn’t been tricked in some way or another; if justice was working correctly your master would be in Australia this minute along with May’s brother, my half-cousin, Philip.’

  His mouth slightly agape, Rory stared at the man. He knew he was speaking the truth, yet he still couldn’t believe it. His master was a God-fearing man, he had lived in the North all his life. No, no, he hadn’t. He remembered Peter Tollett talking about the time he left his father’s shop and went to sea. Three years he was away and when he came back his father was on his deathbed and so he stayed and took up the business from there. Then his mother married again, a man she had known in her early years, and went to live in Liverpool. Yes, it was Liverpool, he remembered. But they must have moved to the West Country for it was to the West Country that his master had come to visit his mother. His ma? Miss Bluett? Ma or May Bluett? He couldn’t get this straight at all. There were so many things he couldn’t get straight he didn’t know which end of him was up. The master’s words came to him: ‘You hold my life in your hands, boy.’

  He would do anything for his master, he owed him so much. But did he owe him this much, which meant getting himself mixed up with a gang of smugglers, because that’s what they were? They said they weren’t bad men, and somehow they weren’t, but nevertheless they were smuggling and there was a penalty for smuggling. Yet he knew that all kinds of men, in all kinds of classes, went in for smuggling; parsons and priests, doctors and lawyers, had been known to dabble in it; but somehow he had the strange feeling that this wasn’t ordinary smuggling.

  He moved his bare feet on the wooden floor, straightened his shoulders, jerked his chin upwards, then said, ‘What’s blue baccy?’

  The two men didn’t move, they didn’t exchange glances, they just stared at him.

  There started inside him a tremor that he would have liked to disassociate from fear, but it was saying, ‘They could murder me an’ nobody would know, because nobody knows I’m here except them two in that madhouse over there.’ The beautiful house had, for him, now turned into a madhouse, ruled over by a madwoman. His sweat was beginning to dampen his hair when Ben lifted his arm and with pointing finger said, ‘That’s blue baccy, boy.’

  Slowly he turned his gaze and looked down on the table where lay two small cartwheels of baccy. It was what was known as twist baccy; it was brown and about an inch in depth and each cartwheel did not measure more than three inches across. His whole face screwed up in bewilderment. Blue baccy; it was the ordinariest baccy he had ever seen. He had seen hard twists and flat black baccy like the sailors chewed; he had seen shag baccy and the big rolls of baccy from which the shopkeepers sliced off whatever a customer wanted, a penn’orth, two penn’orth according to your means; there were fancy baccies put in boxes—these had certain scents to them he was told; but what he was looking at now was a little flat cartwheel of cheap baccy. He turned slowly and looked from one man to the other and Ben said quietly, ‘That’s blue baccy, boy.’

  ‘Why do you call it blue?’

  Ben’s mouth opened, his face went into a twisted smile and he said, ‘Ah-ha! Well now! That can wait. What do you think, Lawrence?’ and Lawrence, his face too taking on a lighter expression, said, ‘Yes, Ben, that can wait. Let us eat; enough is enough. Go on, boy, get your clothes on then come down to a meal, and some cider. That’ll soften the questions in you.’

  The Frenchman now pushed him hard on the shoulder and after a moment, while he looked from one to the other, he turned away, and as if still in a deep dream he went into the other room and slowly got into his clothes. Blue baccy! He felt utterly deflated and slightly silly.

  Chapter Six

  Rory considered the meal to be like a party you would have at a wedding, or a harvest supper. The table was laden with all kinds of food: a leg of roast pork, cold ham, meat pies, and fruit pies; cakes with burnt brown sugar on the top and tarts covered in cream; besides which there was cider, great jars of it.

  Everyone was seated at the table, all helping each other to this or that food, and all aiming at once to help him, that is with the exception of the grandmother, who from time to time stared at him blankly and addressed him in her foreign tongue, and as the meal went on became more and more querulous. At one point, her hand gesticulating backwards and forwards across the table, she covered him with a spate of words until her son, Lawrence, said, ‘Take no heed, she’s in her cider mood. Always like this with too much cider in her.’ Turning to his mother, he now said in English, ‘Enough, old lady, now! Enough! We know that all the boards in the island are not spread like this, but there is bread for all, so don’t keep harping back to forty-seven.’

  He turned to Rory and said, ‘There was an uprising of the workers a few years ago. Bread was very dear; they attacked the mill and were only quelled when the troops were called out…but’—he spread his hands wide—‘that is all past, now we have enough and plenty for all who come. And they do come—’ he wagged his finger at Rory. ‘From all over the world they seek refuge here: Poles, Russians, Hungarians, Italians, aye, and even Frenchmen fleeing from old Nap. Aye, they all come here. Do you know, boy, this is but the world in miniature; everything happens here, wrecks, cholera. Yes, and not forgettin’ the creation of colleges. We’re having a college built, boy. And Louis Blanc’s here. Do you know about Louis Blanc? No, no, you wouldn’t, boy. Great Fren
chman, Louis Blanc, the workers’ friend, Louis Blanc, but France has no use for him. Here’s to Louis Blanc.’ He raised his mug of cider and took a long draught; then he cried, ‘And here’s to Ben, drink to Ben.’ And they all drank to Ben. Rory too; he kept sipping at his cider, but it got no less for they would insist on refilling his mug. He didn’t know how much he had drunk; he only knew that he liked them all very much, even the granny who kept shouting at him when she must know he couldn’t understand a word she said.

  ‘Drink to Rory. Rory O’Mory. Drink to Rory.’

  ‘Me name’s McAlister.’

  ‘His name’s McAlister.’ They were choking with their laughter.

  Oh they were funny. He was enjoying himself as he had never done before. And the food was wonderful, marvellous; he had never tasted anything like it; he was chock-a-block with cream. Vaguely, at the back of his mind he thought of his family. What would they not give to sit at a table like this? But the thought brought him no pain, as it would have done at another time. He was so warm inside, his head was light, and he felt quite merry. An unusual feeling for him.

  After a few more sips of cider he heard himself laughing, and they were all pointing at him and lying half over the table in their mirth. Had he said something funny? No, he hadn’t opened his mouth. Perhaps he looked funny when he laughed…Well, he felt happy.

  When he could eat no more he sat back and gazed happily at the activity about him. He watched the table being cleared, then bottles of wine being placed on it, together with three large rolls of tobacco and a foot-long plain wooden box.

  Lawrence turned to him and, pointing to the box, said, ‘Snuff, enough snuff to sneeze a town. Highlander’s snuff, you know.’ He dug Rory in the shoulder. ‘When you come again I’ll take you into the town and show you the statue of the big Highlander. Outside the shop of baccy, he stands, the big Highlander, taking snuff…I like you, boy.’ Lawrence’s face came close to Rory’s. ‘You tell John I like you. You won’t forget, will you?’

  Rory shook his head, still smiling.

  ‘And tickle Scape’s whiskers for me for luck, boy, will you? Oh aye, tickle Scape’s whiskers for me.’

  Into Rory’s befuddled mind there struggled the question of why this man, hundreds of miles away from the wheelwright’s shop and across the sea, should know about Scape. But then he gave himself the laughing answer. Scape was a joke; likely Mr Cornwallis had made them laugh about Scape’s escapades and her running away over the fells every time she got loose and making straight for the Inn at Gateshead. Everybody laughed at Scape’s liking for beer. Peter Tollett was known to bring her a drop now and then, although Mr Cornwallis didn’t like it. Yes, that must be how this Frenchman knew about the goat …

  Rory’s memory of the farewells he made to the Lesauteur family was vague. Only one or two things stood out: the young woman, who was called Elizabeth, kissing him on both cheeks and him trying to push her away, which caused everybody to roar again with laughter; and then Lawrence standing in the passageway somewhat apart from the others and patting Ben’s chest as he said, ‘Safe journey, blue baccy. Yes indeed, for all our sakes, a safe journey,’ and Ben taking Lawrence’s hand and saying, ‘Never fear, Lawrence, never fear.’

  Then Lawrence had asked, ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘Clear as a bell, Lawrence. You know that I never go over the third pint; and a cider has never been brewed that could knock me out in three.’

  Rory recollected vaguely a strange young man coming on the scene at the last moment and that his name was Raoul, and he was the husband of Elizabeth and was a militia man. He was also vaguely aware that it was Raoul who led him through the dark lanes and down the steep cliff side to the shore, while Ben and Lawrence followed behind. And he recalled, while on the beach, Lawrence whispering thickly, ‘The boy’ll be no help to you, Ben; Raoul’ll push you through the rocks.’

  He himself was then pushed into the boat, and he stammered, ‘I…I’m all r-right, Ben…Tiller. I can take the…tiller.’

  ‘You stay quiet and don’t move. Sit there. Now sit there.’ Ben’s hands pushed him down and onto the bottom of the boat near the entrance to the small cabin and, his voice no longer merry now, hissed at him, ‘Stay put! Now do you hear? Stay put until I tell you to move.’

  Rory stayed put. The boat began to move. He heard the soft goodbyes between Lawrence and Ben. Then he felt the boat heave and some time later Ben’s voice, saying, ‘Good enough, Raoul, I’m all right now. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Ben. Good trip. Good luck.’

  Everything was soft, muted. The motion of the boat was gentle; the night was black; and he was suddenly very, very tired. He laid his head in the crook of his arm and, knowing little of the danger he was in and caring less, he went to sleep.

  ‘Wake up, boy. Wake up, you’ve had enough. Come on.’

  The hand on his shoulder pulled him into a sitting position. Through slit eyes he peered down into the cabin where a lantern was burning low. ‘Come on. Come down here and drink this.’

  When he went to obey the order his head seemed to bounce upwards off his shoulders. When it settled again the pain of it made him shudder. He covered his eyes with his hand as Ben’s voice came to him, saying, ‘Yes, cleft in two, that’s what it feels like. Come on down and drink this; this’ll put you right.’

  When he turned onto his hands and knees he was aware that the back of his clothes was soaking wet. He had been lying in water, and he was shivering like a leaf. He took the big mug into his trembling hands and his face screwed up still further as he drank the bitter black cold coffee.

  Not until he drained the mug could he speak, and then he said apologetically, ‘I’m sorry, but…but I’m not used to cider.’

  ‘That’s pretty clear, boy.’

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘Four hours or so.’

  ‘Oh.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you get the boat out.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right. We were in luck, the weather was kind…Feel better?’

  ‘Me head’s achin’…splittin’.’

  ‘That’ll clear in a short while when you get the wind through you. Speaking of wind, if the squall doesn’t come and she keeps like this we should be in well before sunrise tomorrow morning, around six I should say, for she’s going straight and sweet.’

  He now leant over and peered at a small compass set in a brass case, then said, ‘If the wind holds good I’ll have a nap myself; that is, come early morning. Never trust the wind till after midnight, boy. Speaking of trust—’ he now picked up the brown coffee mug and poured himself out some more coffee before asking, ‘Do you trust me?’

  Rory was taken aback by the straight question; then because he was built as he was he gave the straight answer, ‘Not very much,’ he said.

  ‘Good enough. If you had said otherwise I wouldn’t have believed you…What did you hear this morning from your bed?’

  Rory’s mind was not quite clear yet, and he had to think hard for a moment. Then he said, ‘Enough to know that I’ve been tricked; that she, Miss Bluett back there, got me to sign me name to something which will give her a hold over me. At least she thinks it will. But it won’t, you know, ’cos I’ll fight her.’

  ‘I like your spirit, boy, but believe me when I say, those words have been said before but to no avail.’

  Rory felt that thread of fear again going through him; and now he asked quietly, ‘Who is she, anyway?’

  ‘Well, I could say she is Miss May Bluett who was born on a little scrap of a farm not ten miles from the house she lives in now, and she has two brothers, one you’ve met, Alex, and a younger one called Philip. But when I’ve said that, that’s only telling you about one Miss Bluett; I know half a dozen.’

  ‘Well I’ve only met one of her an’ I think she’s awful.’

  ‘Yes, she’s awful, boy…and wonderful. It’s just how you look at her.’

  ‘What’s all this got
to do with my master? How did she trick him?’

  ‘It’s funny you using the word trick, but as Lawrence said to you a while back, John was the only one she didn’t actually trick, not intentionally anyway, he tricked himself. It’s an old story and if it doesn’t happen every day it happens pretty often. By the way, did you like the house, St Helier’s?’

  ‘Aye, I thought it was bonny, but…but I don’t want to see it again.’

  ‘But you thought it was bonny, and it is bonny. That’s what May Bluett thought when she saw it first as a young lass. But she thought the master of it was bonnier still. Conway they called him, Henry Charles Montague Conway. He was as fancy looking as his name. All the women thought him pretty; May thought him beautiful, and she decided to have him. And when May decides to have anything she gets it. She rode like a man—she has always ridden like a man—and she rode full tilt for him, for he was a big prize; he had looks, a fine house, which, by the way, May coveted from the day she first saw its gables, and he was also supposed to be rich. So she won the race and snared him. Aye, that’s the word, snared. Like a hunting dog with a rabbit, she snared him. Well, about the same time her brother Philip was making good headway with a bonny piece from as far away as Dawlish. Bella Nesbitt was her name. And one day Bella Nesbitt and Henry Charles Montague Conway met. Now you can perhaps guess the rest, eh?’

  Rory shook his head and, his eyes wide, he kept them fixed on Ben, and for a moment he forgot he was rocking in the middle of the ocean in a tiny lamp-lit cabin in which it was impossible to stand upright. Then Ben went on, ‘No? Well, you being sixteen I thought it would have been evident. Anyway, a fortnight before May was due to marry Henry Conway, what does he do but run off with Bella? Can you imagine, boy, the scandal that caused? It ricocheted for miles around, from the Blackdown Hills to Bridport, from Glastonbury to Exmouth. People laughed behind their hands, for they knew that the hunter had lost her quarry; and a hunter May certainly was and she didn’t care who knew it. To say that she was bitter is putting it mild, and there’s no knowing what she might have done if her favourite brother, Philip, hadn’t taken a hand. Now Philip was a well set-up fellow himself, proud and a bit blustering, but he had one weakness, drink, and because of his hurt he went on a spree that took him as far away as Plymouth, and there in a bar he meets a man…Now can you guess this man’s name?’