Edward Brazier was puzzled. The stable yard was crammed with open carts, coaches and covered vans; also busy were the lanes surrounding the inn – inexplicably so. Being situated in a country location on the edge of a far-from-substantial village, well off the main routes to the east coast of Kent, it scarcely warranted such traffic. The obligation to call upon an old superior had brought him here in a hired hack, when the simplest, most comfortable and quickest route to his destination would have been the regular stagecoach through either Dover or Sandwich.
Rear Admiral Sir Eustace Pollock, who had been his captain aboard HMS Magnanime, had taken up a country residence, having bought a vacant parsonage in the village of Adisham. Having never married, the admiral was being cared for by a housekeeper and various other servants and he had, in his letters, alluded to a degree of loneliness. It would thus have been remiss for one of his former midshipmen, as well as the man who had helped him rise to officer rank, not to call and pay his respects when he was in the locality.
The recollection of the conversation the pair had engaged in was enough to bring a smile to Brazier’s lips; Pollock, a grizzled old salt long past his prime, who struggled to recall where he had put his pipe or his eyeglasses, seemed able to remember and relate with startling clarity every misdemeanour of his one-time subordinate.
‘You were a damned nuisance, Brazier,’ he had growled, gathering a shawl around his shoulders while poking his fire, on a day in which the necessity for either was questionable. ‘You cannot know on how many occasions I regretted giving in to your father’s pleading that I take you on board.’
‘I seem to recall, sir, that you had me mustered as a servant for two years before I set foot on your deck.’
There was no resentment in the statement, nor for the fact that Pollock had been pocketing the small sums provided by the navy, this to both clothe and feed him when he was still onshore and at school. Such a practice was common, one of the ways for a naval captain to enhance his income, and was not to be remarked upon.
‘I sense it left you with an obligation.’
‘An obligation to have you kiss the gunner’s daughter more than a dozen times in your first twelvemonth. Damn me, my arm ached from chastising you. Still, you turned, by some miracle, into a competent officer.’ Poker still in hand and staring at the fire, Pollock added, ‘And now you’re a post captain, though only the Good Lord knows how since, as a shaver, obeying an order seemed alien to your nature.’
These memories had been delivered with gruff good humour, manufactured anger and very loose recollection of the truth; the conversation turned less pleasant when it moved on from amusing recollection to Pollock’s present status. Like every flag officer in the King’s Navy, he owed his admiral’s rank to time served. He had reached the top of the captain’s list during the American imbroglio, to then become the victim of a far-from-uncommon consequence: no employment.
Fortune and decades of service had failed to favour him with the kind of reputation that rendered notable a fighting sailor’s name, added to which, any connections he could call upon were not of the social or political standing to make a pressing case on his behalf at the Admiralty. So he drew his pay and lived comfortably enough, while the next round of promotions, depending on the number of admirals above him who had expired, could well see him promoted.
Even then his hope of ever again holding a sea command were slim to non-existent, while even a shore appointment seemed a distant prospect. He was that pitiful article, a ‘yellow admiral’, a flag officer without benefit of service. While Edward Brazier commiserated with Pollock as he listened to his litany of complaints, he kept hidden the fear that he too might be in much the same boat.
‘You’re welcome to stay, Brazier, of course.’
‘Thank you, sir, but I’m pressed for time.’
Not wishing to tell the truth, he produced a previously arrived at excuse. Pollock had always been dead set against naval officers marrying, seeing them as ‘lost to the service’ when they tied the knot, worrying on home and family instead of the complex needs of their command. Brazier was on his way to pay court to a beautiful widow he had met and become very attracted to in the West Indies, a quest he hoped would lead to nuptials. It would scarce go down well to say so.
‘I have bespoken accommodation in Deal, for which I am already overdue. Also I have a hired hack waiting in your drive, as well as the coachman. He will be anxious to get back to Canterbury, from where I engaged him, and I must allow him time to do so.’
‘A pretty penny that must be costing you.’
‘I am lucky enough, sir, to be able to meet the expense.’
Pollock had nodded but did not press, though his expression failed to hide his disappointment. What was left for an old sailor but to reminisce and relate well-worn stories, best done with a fellow officer, someone who both understood the nature of the tales and could counter with their own?
‘I was looking forward to hearing of your adventures in the Caribbean,’ had been the actual response. ‘And of course that lucky stroke that came your way.’
The temptation had been to say it had not just been luck, though that certainly played a part. HMS Diomede had taken a valuable prize through inspired guesswork, good seamanship, as well as a crew at the peak of their abilities. Such a response had to be suppressed, not least in that it would sound like boasting. In truth, he was somewhat weary of recounting a tale he had been obliged to repeat several dozen times already.
‘I will certainly come by Adisham on another occasion, sir, and ensure I allow myself more time.’
‘That would be most welcome.’
‘Best step down, your honour. With this commotion, it looks to be a time afore we get a suitable swap.’
These words from the coachman brought his passenger back to the present and the reason for their stop. The horse pulling the hack was spent and, since his man could come back by this route, it made sense to seek a temporary replacement. Removing the overall he was wearing to keep his uniform clean, Brazier complied, alighting to stretch his limbs.
‘I will have something sent out to you if that serves.’
‘Kind of you, sir.’
The tavern, when he entered, was so crowded he was in want of a place to sit, which made him wonder what could possibly be going on in this rural backwater to justify so many conveyances and seemingly prosperous customers? Every table near to the entrance was full, so Brazier headed deeper into the warren-like hostelry. Finally, in an alcove, he espied a booth for four with only two occupants, fellows with heads close together and in deep conversation.
‘Gentlemen, would it trouble you if I were to occupy one of these vacant places?’
The act of lifting his hat should have been courtesy enough for a pair of strangers. Expecting a smile and a nod of acceptance, he received the very opposite. Both heads were raised to glare at him, which gave him a chance to inspect features he had not previously bothered to examine, characteristics not aided by less-than-friendly expressions. Obviously these two did not wish to be disturbed and anticipated the stricture would be complied with. Irritated by the incivility of not even a spoken reply, Brazier sat down anyway, put his hat on the table and looked out into the well of the tavern for a serving girl to see to his needs.
‘We are engaged in a private conversation.’
Rough voice and tone, with a grating quality, and decidedly hostile.
‘One in which I have no interest, sir.’
‘While we would be more content if you was to park your arse elsewhere.’
The second voice was different; wheezy, as though the fellow had an affliction of the chest. Yet for all that there was nothing weak about the delivery or, when Brazier turned to respond, the look that went with it. Had there been another seat he would have, in the face of such malice, moved. He had come in for a pot of ale and a bite to eat for himself and his coachman, not a dispute.
‘If you can identify anywhere else to sit, I will most happily oblige, but as you can see there’s no room in this place to swing a cat.’
That naval expression got both men eyeing him up and down, taking in the blue broadcloth coat with white facings and gleaming brass buttons, as well as the twin epaulettes on his shoulders, there to tell anyone who cared to look he was a post captain in His Majesty’s Navy of over three years’ seniority. With a deliberate desire to send his own message, Brazier put a hand on his sword hilt to ease the scabbard away from his leg, while also allowing himself, with a direct look, a deeper appreciation of the features of these fellows.
Gravel voice had a large head and a heavily pockmarked face, with eyes rendered small by the setting, though it had to be admitted the whole was supported by a broad and substantial frame, so did not seem excessive. Weedy was cursed with a protruding lower lip under a too-large nose, which had a drip of fluid forming at the tip, while his weak-looking eyes were rimmed red as if he had been weeping. Both were still utterly ill-disposed. With a couple of smiles and a kindly plea, Brazier would have obliged; he prided himself on his manners after all, but this rankled.
There is a moment, many a time previously experienced, when what could be called an impasse might just become violent – and that applies to fighting dogs as well as humans. The tension becomes palpable, and right now it was on the cusp of spilling over, with Brazier deciding gravel voice, with his bulk and muscle, should be in receipt of the primary blow. Weedy would get a hard elbow in that fulsome, dripping nose as an immediate follow-up.
‘Gentlemen, you will have observed I am a naval officer and, as such, I have shared a midshipman’s berth over many years and a wardroom even longer with many like souls. I am thus perfectly capable of shutting my ears to the private conversations of others, as one is obliged to do in the service. So I pray you carry on your exchange, to which I do assure you, I will pay no heed.’
The mood lasted several seconds before gravel voice put his hands flat on the table to push himself upright.
‘T’is as well we are done. Come, Jaleel, let us leave this high-and-mighty merman to his ale, on which, if there is a God, he might choke.’ The wheezing laugh from his companion was overdone for such a feeble sally, while the words that followed lacked any humour at all. ‘I have marked you, matey, you may count on it. It would serve you well not to cross my path again.’
Edward Brazier had stood at the same time as gravel voice, to face a man of a height equal to his own of six foot plus: if there was to be a bout it would never do to be caught sitting down. By habit he created a gap between them that would allow him his sword if it was required, replying in a very controlled tone of voice.
‘That, sir, is a stricture that applies in more than one direction. It is my fond hope, for the sake of my soul, that I never clap eyes on you again.’
There followed a second moment when violence was on the cusp, the two men standing with eyes locked. Gravel voice flicked a glance to Brazier’s sword, while the man under scrutiny was equally aware of bunched fists with their distended well-used knuckles. What broke it apart was the need to move, this to allow the fellow called Jaleel to squeeze past; he was much smaller and stringy in his build.
Outside the alcove the rest of the tavern had gone quiet, the babble of indecipherable conversation dying away; all eyes were now on the two men facing each other. It became a crowd who, in anticipation, seemed taken by the fact that there might be a contest, while those closest were wondering if it was safe to stay within the orbit of its coming violence. What they got was a snort from gravel voice as he spun on his heels and marched out, his companion at his heels.
‘Sir?’ asked the serving wench, to the customer still on his feet.
The stern expression evaporated at once as Brazier responded, asking for a tankard of ale and some bread and cheese, the same to be sent out to his coachman, before sitting down again. The spare seats were soon filled; clearly another conveyance had come into the yard. As he munched and sipped, Brazier listened with no more than half an ear to the inconsequential talk of his seemingly well-contented fellow travellers, marking only that they, by what he could not help but overhear, saw this place as their destination.
‘Captain Brazier, sir, ready to go at your convenience,’ came the loud call from the out-of-vision doorway.
Sat in the hack again, once more clad in his duster coat, Edward Brazier put out of his mind the pair of bad-tempered locals. Also relegated were any concerns about his own professional future. Given he was heading to Deal for a purpose closer to his heart than his head, it was that to which he sought to turn his mind, conjuring up images of a decent-sized house, outside which, on a well-tended lawn, he would play with his future wife and children.
The onward journey was without anything to be remarked upon other than discomfort. A seat in a hack designed for short town journeys was far from comfortable, rendered less so by being buffeted about while traversing rutted tracks full of deep potholes. He did reflect on the alternative, only to conclude his backside would have been even more afflicted had he chosen to travel on horseback, a mode of conveyance that did not favour the thighs or buttocks over distance, especially for a fellow who had not mounted such a creature in several years.
With darkness creeping over the landscape, all he could observe, even with a full moon and strong starlight, outside the minimal pool cast by the tiny carriage lanterns, were the lamps and candles of the dwellings they passed – he assumed a stream of isolated farmhouses or tiny hamlets – until finally he reached his destination: the Three Kings Inn on the foreshore of Lower Deal.
His sea chest having been taken inside by the porter, he settled his bill with the coachman, with an extra coin for his attention, then saw him off on his way back to his home city. Brazier stood for a moment sniffing the familiar scent of the sea on a blustery, easterly wind, one that served to blow away from him the odour of rotting fish as well as a dozen other noxious smells. He stood for a while, eyeing the mass of lantern-illuminated ships in the roadstead: ghostly shapes in the overhead light, numerous merchant vessels of all shapes and sizes, filling the waters between the shoreline and the great protective bar of the Goodwin Sands.
Amongst them would be the vessels of the Royal Navy’s Downs Squadron, which led him to wonder if that would include people he knew, or a ship within which he had served. Given the reason he had come to this place, was that something to be welcomed or avoided? Common courtesy demanded he make his presence known to the man who commanded in the Downs, and, from that, contact would flow and spread, whether he liked it or not, as well as an interest in the previous activities of this new arrival. That being a problem for another day he went indoors.
‘I bid you a hearty welcome to our establishment, Captain Brazier. I’m happy to say that the rooms you sought, the best we have, with a view of the sea and a private place of easement, are free for your use and ready, with a goodly fire a’burnin’ in the grate.’
The owner of the Three Kings, who introduced himself as Garlick, was a fellow with a visage that went with his vinous occupation. He had the purple nose and blotched skin of the serious imbiber, these under a shiny bald pate, to which was allied the necessary obsequious nature of the trade. His smile exposed stained wooden teeth as well as a lack of sincerity so, on the whole, it was unpleasant.
‘I must apologise for being a full day late. I was held up on the way.’
‘What does that matter, sir?’ Not at all, was the Brazier thought, given it will appear on my bill anyway. ‘Your sea chest is already in your rooms and, if you desire it, I will send up a wench to stow away your possessions.’
The gleam in the puffy eyes told Brazier he was required to respond; what type of wench was now his to indicate. One that would see to his clothing as stated, or a person of another profession altogether, who would meet requirements of a more personal nature?
‘Some indication of your wines will serve, Mr Garlick, plus an idea of what I can partake of in the article of food.’
‘To be taken in the parlour, sir?’
‘No, tonight I will eat in my rooms. And I am accustomed to laying out the contents of my sea chest without assistance.’
The flicker of those same eyes, the way they turned away from this new guest, spoke of a disappointment to match that of Admiral Pollock, albeit for a very different reason. Garlick and his ilk made extra money from folks with certain needs other than a place to eat and lay their head.
‘And am I allowed to enquire how long you will be staying, sir?’
‘There you have me, fellow, for I have no idea. And could you ensure I have the means sent up to write? I have some messages to pen, one of which I would like delivered as soon as it’s composed.’
The rooms, in contrast to the man who ran the place, were charming and comfortable, while the food – a pair of mutton chops and a pigeon, accompanied by a heap of spring vegetables – amply met the Brazier cravings. The wine he chose, a pitcher of Burgundy was, by its name, of such a quality as to make him suspicious. Produced from a cask to be sniffed at, his nose hinted at true quality, so much so that he took care in the pouring, though not in the consumption. By the time he sought his bed, the pitcher was empty.