Black Gold (20 page)

Feeling self-conscious, Saint-Martin changed the subject. “And after Minden…how
did
you serve God and country?”

“I've hardly covered myself with glory,” Burton replied. “Innkeeper for several years, then constable for as many more, and finally an officer of the Bow Street Court. I've sent scores of rogues to Newgate, where I hope to put Jack Roach.”

Saint-Martin had noticed early on that Burton posed shrewd questions. His modest manner, his friendly face invited trust and must have enticed confessions from many a felon. When they first met more than a year ago, Saint-Martin had judged him to be a plodding, unimaginative sort. His speech indicated he was largely self-taught. Now, it was clear that he plodded according to well-considered plans and with sound insight into the criminal mind. Like an old experienced hunting dog, he would sooner or later run Roach to ground.

Leaving the York with his companion, Saint-Martin felt as if they had become partners. They shook hands. “Colonel,” said the Bow Street man, “I believe I'll have a little chat with Madame Gagnon this afternoon. Might learn something new about the Red Devil.” He winked to Saint-Martin as they parted.

Chapter 17

Confrontation

Tuesday, April 3

As twilight gathered over Combe Park, Colonel Saint-Martin sat at his table reflecting. It had been an eventful day: Critchley's theft of Lady Margaret's hidden secret, Anne's rescue of Sarah Smith at the Little Drummer, the new partnership with the Bow Street officer. And, there might be more. He glanced at his watch. He should have heard from his adjutant by this time. Could Fitzroy have become suspicious and tricked Georges or caused him harm? Saint-Martin shook off his anxiety. Georges might sometimes play the clown, but he was alert and cautious when in danger.

The colonel bent over the small account book he would present to Baron Breteuil at the end of this mission. The baron had set no limit on expenses, but would expect an accurate accounting. The colonel paused to study Georges' most recent report. He had paid out two hundred and fifty pounds in the past few days to various watchmen, inn keepers, chairbearers, cooks, maids, and other servants, and had promised at least as much to come. A useful network of informants did not come cheap. And there wasn't much time. With conflicts at Combe Park coming to a head, reliable information was essential. Baron Breteuil would agree.

Saint-Martin put the baron's account book aside and opened his own. How much could he afford to wager on Lord Jeff tomorrow? In the public rooms on the floor below, Sir Harry and dozens of sportsmen were engaged in a betting frenzy. The colonel had promised to join them.

Unlike most men of his class, Saint-Martin was not in the habit of betting. But he wanted to offer moral support to the black man, in whom he recognized a worthy spirit. Jeffery had the physical strength and courage of a warrior, combined with uncommon modesty and gentleness. A noble savage, as fashionable writers would say. And a skillful, well-trained boxer into the bargain. Saint-Martin quickly calculated his future expenses and reached a decision. One hundred pounds on Lord Jeff to win, risking the price of a fine horse.

There was a familiar knock at the door. Two short raps followed by two long ones. Saint-Martin put away the account books and opened for Georges. The stocky adjutant's face glowed with excitement. “Just got back. Guess what I learned in Bristol!” He went on to describe Fitzroy's visit to the port city and the American ship.

Saint-Martin listened with growing disbelief. “Do you really think Fitzroy intends to sail away and abandon Lady Margaret?” He motioned to the table and sat opposite his adjutant.

Georges thought for a moment before replying. “Fitzroy's a military man, trying to secure his rear. The ship to New York is his way out, if he needs it. He will probably try to resolve his conflict with Sir Harry before that American ship leaves Bristol. A duel perhaps, if the occasion arises. Or an assassination, carried out on his behalf by the two red-coated rogues who guard him. With Sir Harry out of the way, Fitzroy could marry the rich widow.”

Saint-Martin furrowed his brow, still skeptical. “Sir Harry can deduce Fitzroy's motives as well as we. He'll anticipate the captain's moves and set a trap.”

“They remind me,” said Georges, “of two cats circling each other, looking for a chance to strike.”

“Then we must come between them and prevent the fight if we are to steal Fitzroy away to France.”

“We're likely to get scratched.”

The colonel smiled. “No matter.”

Georges tapped nervously on the table. “Where's Miss Cartier? I've asked Lord Jeff to keep an eye on her.”

“In the ballroom,” Saint-Martin replied, “singing for Sir Harry's guests. She followed Jeff this morning. Discovered he visits a young lady on Avon Street and is also making plans to flee Combe Park and become a free man.”

“Good God! We're sitting on a volcano. If Jeff leaves, Sir Harry will erupt.”

“And put our plans in jeopardy,” added Saint-Martin. “I can hardly fault the slave for seeking his freedom, but I wish he'd do it after we've laid hold of Fitzroy.” He walked over to the mirror, palmed his hair back. “I'll join the party downstairs and place a bet on Jeff.”

The colonel made his way to the public rooms, amazed by the feverish atmosphere that reigned throughout the house: music and dancing in the ballroom, games of chance in the drawing room, food and drink in the dining room, betting everywhere. Distinguished visitors including the Duke of Portland were joining the crowd and placing bets. At the match tomorrow there would be more betting before and during the contest. Betting had become a consuming passion at Combe Park. Saint-Martin had seldom seen anything like it.

In the hallway, a servant told him that Sir Harry was in his study making final arrangements for tomorrow. Rogers and several other sportsmen had organized the match at a ruined abbey on the estate of Lord Bascombe, an earl who appreciated pugilistic prowess. The site was beyond the reach of magistrates who might otherwise condemn the match as a disorderly assembly. A crowd of thousands would come from Bath and London.

The door to Sir Harry's study swung open as Saint-Martin approached. Sir Harry strode out, leading a group of his sporting acquaintances, their faces flushed and jovial. “Colonel Saint-Martin! Come with us.” They had apparently enjoyed a glass or two of Sir Harry's port wine. “We're on our way to the tennis hall to watch Lord Jeff spar with Sam the Bath butcher.” Sir Harry took a boxer's stance—arms raised, fists clenched, and playfully traded punches with several like-minded sportsmen nearby. “These gentlemen want to see our bruisers before they settle on the size of their bets.”

Jeffery was virtually unknown outside Somerset, while his opponent, Thomas Futrell, had fought in the presence of the Prince of Wales and was a celebrity throughout England. Most of this evening's visitors to Combe Park would bet heavily on him.

On the way to the tennis hall, Saint-Martin and Sir Harry ignored the drizzle and fell amiably in step. The Frenchman felt free to ask how he had come by his remarkable interest in boxing.

“It began dockside in Bristol,” he replied, pleased to explain. “As a young man, I had to fight with brains and fists to earn respect from the brutes I worked with. I went on to rule the docks, then my ship, and finally my business. A year ago, on a trip to Jamaica, I discovered this slave, a young footman named Jeffery, fast as lightening, clever, strong as an ox. He was boxing for his master on a local market day.”

Rogers' voice grew excited, his fists clenched, as if he were transported back to that match. “I learned that my own
African Rose
had brought him to Jamaica as a boy. I bought him on the spot. He was a natural fighter. Knocked out his opponent in ten minutes. I took him with me to Bristol, trained him, and put him in several easy local fights. Then I brought in the Jew, Dan Mendoza, the best boxer in London, who sparred with him, polished his style.”

“Are you confident Jeff is ready to fight a national champion?” Saint-Martin asked.

“Confident?” Sir Harry chuckled. “Thus far, I've bet five thousand pounds on him at odds of two to one, and I expect to bet more. I grant you, Lord Jeff is smaller than Futrell but he's faster and in better condition. I sent Peter Hyde to London two weeks ago to watch Futrell in training. Peter says the man's slack and careless, hardly works up a sweat—claims he'll toy with Jeff for a while to please the crowd, then pound him to pieces.”

Sir Harry patted Saint-Martin on the shoulder. “Colonel, mark my word. Tom Futrell is in for the surprise of his life. By tomorrow night, Lord Jeff is going to be the talk of Britain. Put your money on him.”

As they entered the hall, Saint-Martin noticed that Captain Fitzroy and his two British army friends had already arrived and were watching the two fighters limber their muscles. Upon seeing Fitzroy, Sir Harry stiffened, snorted. With a brusk toss of his head, he led his companions to the opposite side of the sparring ring.

This was a light workout for Jeffery, who dodged the charges of his heavier partner and parried his powerful blows. An impartial observer might well have wondered whether the black man had the strength and the will to carry the fight to his opponent. Had Sir Harry designed this exercise to encourage the odds against his man? Paul asked himself.

After the two men had sparred for several minutes, Captain Fitzroy walked nonchalantly around the ring to Sir Harry. “I saw Tom Futrell fight in London. He'll beat your black man to bloody pulp.”

“Do you think so, Captain?” remarked Sir Harry, loudly enough to be heard throughout the hall.

“Certainly,” the Irishman replied. “Everyone knows that blacks are ignorant cowards. A manly bruiser like Futrell will bring craven fear to the eyes of your Lord Jeff.” Heads turned toward the two men. The room grew quiet. The boxers lowered their mittened fists and returned to their corners.

“Then, Captain, you should be glad to back Futrell with the treasure you brought from France.”

“Indeed, sir!” Fitzroy's words dripped venom. “I'll bet one thousand pounds your black beggar doesn't last a half-hour.”

“Agreed, Captain,” hissed Rogers through clenched teeth. On the spot, he wrote down the wager. Both men signed the chit, then stood for a moment glaring at each other. Saint-Martin could feel the hatred between them. Fitzroy beckoned his friends and they marched out.

“Good riddance,” snarled Rogers as they left. He addressed the others, “Gentlemen, we shall return now to my study and place our bets.” He nodded to Saint-Martin to join them and strode out of the room.

***

Anne sang the last words of her song, bowed to scattered applause, and stepped down from the chancel stage onto the ballroom floor. During the intermission, guests milled about in noisy conversation. Many were tipsy. She found herself alone in the crowd. Paul was with other gentlemen wagering in Sir Harry's study, and Georges was waiting on thirsty visitors in the dining room. Anne felt restless, tired, and hot.

If the weather had been fair, the windows would have been open. The crowd would have spilled out into the garden. Unfortunately, the weather was cold and wet, and the servants had closed the windows. The air had become unfit to breathe, the din intolerable. Though wearing only the light red gown Madame Gagnon had lent her, Anne escaped to the chilly, deserted portico off the entrance foyer. At the stone balustrade, she looked out over the mist covered city below her in the distance. A breeze stung her face with icy pellets.

She soon shivered from the cold and was about to go back inside when she sensed someone approach from behind. Before she could react, a hand clamped over her mouth, an arm gripped her across the chest, and a large heavy body pressed her up against the balustrade.

“I've been busy, but I haven't forgotten you.”

Jack Roach, Anne realized with horror. She clawed at his arm, tearing his sleeve and scratching him. She tried to kick him, but her feet ripped her gown and became ensnared.

She felt his hot breath on her neck. “You fooled us on the Bristol Road,” he whispered in her ear. “Met us like a goddam army. This time, you won't get away. Critchley's waiting down there to break your neck. Another accident, like Mary Campbell's.” He lifted her up, as if to throw her over the balustrade to the flagstones some twenty feet below.

As he shifted his grip, she worked her mouth free and bit hard on his finger.

“Damn bitch!” His grip on her body loosened.

She jerked her head back violently. Bone struck soft flesh.

He uttered an obscene curse, tried to regain his grip.

She freed her feet and pushed away from the balustrade.

Suddenly, he released her. Anne spun around and saw Roach's face in the low, diffused light from the foyer. His eyes bulged. His mouth, twisted with pain, uttered soundless curses. Jeffery's powerful right hand was squeezing the nape of his neck in a vice-like grip. The footman duck-walked the bully across the portico and shoved him into the foyer.

By now, Anne was trembling from the cold and shock, one of Roach's buttons clutched in her hand. Jeffery pulled off his coat and threw it over her shoulders, then leaned toward her with a heart-warming smile, the first from him. “Sarah told me what you did for her at The Little Drummer. We're grateful.” He paused, inspecting her carefully. “Are you hurt?”

“You arrived just in time,” Anne spluttered, still trying to catch her breath. She struggled on in a worried voice, “He said Critchley's down below.”

Jeffery leaped to the balustrade and looked over. “Nobody's there now.” He returned to her. “I saw Mr. Critchley in the house just a few minutes ago. The Red Devil may have lied to frighten you.”

“Yes, that must give him pleasure. But, one day, he will try again in earnest to kill me,” said Anne in a voice so matter-of-fact that it startled her. Was she becoming fatalistic, losing control of her own destiny? “We should leave now, Jeffery. Please take care. It's true what they say about Roach. He always gets even—or tries to. You've just humiliated him.”

He acknowledged her concern with a slight bow, then frowned. “I should report him to Sir Harry.” His voice lacked conviction.

“Don't bother.” Anne realized Sir Harry would regard the incident as a mere trifle since Roach hadn't hurt her. If accused, he would claim he had only been trying to steal a kiss. She would pass on to Paul and Georges his odd incriminating remark about Mary Campbell and Critchley. Another lie?

At the door to the hall, she returned Jeffery's coat and they stepped inside. Suddenly, persons nearby began staring at them. Some were snickering.

Georges came out of the crowd. “What happened?” he whispered. “First, Jack Roach stumbles through the door with blood pouring from his lips, his sleeve ripped. Then, you and…” He glanced at Jeffery, who was moving away, then at Anne. “Look at your dress! and your hair! You're a mess!”

Anne studied herself. The muslin was torn, smeared with blood, and a dirty gray where she had rubbed against the balustrade. “Roach tried to throw me off the portico. Jeffery saved me.” Anne suddenly felt faint and leaned on Georges. “I'd better go to my room. Help me please.”