The Launching of Roger Brook (12 page)

He had gone a trifle pale, but he quickly recovered himself
and began to stroke her hair, murmuring softly as he did so.

There, there, Georgina, darling. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I’ll be all right. I vow I will. You were speaking of some years hence, and by the time I’m fully grown I’ll be a match with the rapier for any man.’

She raised her head, her eyes still swimming. ‘Oh, Roger, dear, do take care. You seemed furiously angry. But you must keep calm. You
must
keep calm; your life will hang on that. And you’ll need all your skill. Your antagonist will be one of the finest swordsmen in France.’

‘In France?’ he echoed.

‘Yes.’ She shook herself. ‘Why did I say that? I know not. Yet I am certain ‘twas in France that I saw you, as a man of maybe twenty, fighting this frightful duel.’

Georgina had discovered when still quite young that she had inherited the gift of second sight from her gipsy mother, and she had often told Roger’s fortune on previous occasions, but generally half playfully, and never with such an outpouring of emotion.

‘You’ve never told me half as much, or described people that I’m going to meet when you’ve looked in the glass for me before,’ he remarked, thoughtfully.

She shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’m getting better at it now I’m older. But I don’t think it’s that. There is little to foresee in a schoolboy’s dull existence, whereas from now on all sorts of things may happen to you.’

‘Are you not jealous of the fair-haired girl,’ he laughed, trying to make light of the matter.

‘Why should I be?’ she answered seriously. ‘I’ve had you first and I’ll have you last, if I’ve a mind to it. That is—if you live to come back to me.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll never forget you, Georgina, wherever I may go. I may fall in love with other women for a season, but you will ever hold a special place in my heart.’

‘And you in mine, dear Roger. Our comradeship these two years past has meant more to me than you can ever know. But the day marches. ’Tis near four o’clock, and you’ll need to buy a few things in Lymington before you set out; so you should be on your way if you mean to take the road to London tonight.’

‘So be it then. Let us go down, and we can say farewell while my horse is being brought round from the stables.’

‘Nay,’ she shook her head. ‘I’ll not come down. Kiss me good-bye here. Then I can have a good cry about you on my bed as you ride away. ’Tis monstrous foolish of me, but I almost think I love you at this moment.’

‘Then pledge yourself to me,’ he cried impulsively. ‘You’re wondrous beautiful, and if I feel not love for you I know not what it is. Your kisses fire me as naught else has ever done, and I would give my life to protect your happiness.’

‘Nay, sweet Roger. ’Tis you who are being foolish now, and we are pledged to something far more lasting than a summer’s passion. Kiss me now and go. May God protect you.’

Once more her soft arms were round his neck and their mouths crushed together. Then she broke from him and, stifling a sob, turned away.

A moment later he was clattering down the stairs on his way out into the world to seek fame and fortune.

Roger had now adopted Georgina’s plan, that he should go to London, cut a fine figure on the proceeds of her jewels and trust to his natural gifts to secure him a promising opening, without reservation; and, had he there and then turned his mount towards Lyndhurst and the London road, his future would have been entirely different.

Fate decreed, however, that unreasoning instinct should impel him to ride back to Lymington as his natural starting-point on this great adventure. For one thing, although the little mare he was riding was always regarded as his in the holidays, it never even occurred to him to deprive his parents of her in order to facilitate his journey; for another, Georgina had put it into his mind that, before setting out, he should buy a few things that he was bound to need, in the town; and for a third, he felt that he could not leave
his mother the prey to most appalling anxiety by simply disappearing without a word.

Entering Lymington from the west he rode past the church, up the High Street and through the low arch that gave on to the stable yard of the Angel Inn. As he handed his mare over to the ostler for a rub down and a feed he knew that she would be quite safe there and, when he failed to claim her, be duly returned to her own stable the following morning. Realising that it was the last he would see of the skittish little chestnut, he gave her an extra pat, and turned, rather sorrowfully, into the tap-room.

At this hour of the afternoon, as it was not a market day, the low-raftered tap-room was deserted. He rapped his riding-crop sharply on one of the stout oak tables until a fresh-cheeked girl appeared, then he asked her for a glass of Ratifia and writing things. She brought him the cordial, an inkhorn, quill pen, sand-shoe and paper. Sitting down he composed a letter to his mother, which ran:

My dear Mother
,

Please do not think too hardly of me, but I have formed an unshakable determination not to go to sea. The only course that is open to me is to leave home for a while. Yet do not think of me, I beg, as penniless or hungry. A good friend has furnished me with ample funds and now that I am a man in all but stature I am quite capable of taking good care of myself. Do not be uneasy should I not write to you for some little time but I will do so as soon as I am settled in some profitable employment and, if by then my father has relented, I will gladly return home to discuss any other project for my future
.

Your very loving, if undutiful, son
,

Roger
.

Having sanded his missive he sealed it with a wafer and put it in his pocket, knowing that he could give it to anyone in the town just before his departure and be quite certain of its safe delivery.

He next considered how best to set about his journey. To walk all the way to London seemed a stupid and time-wasting proceeding now that he could well afford to go by coach; yet there was a snag to that, since his new-found wealth was not in coin and on counting over his money he
found that he had only five and eightpence on him.

To endeavour to turn some of Georgina’s trinkets into cash at the local silversmiths seemed a risky venture. The man was a sour creature and would be certain to wonder how a lad had come into possession of a woman’s jewellery. He would probably think that Roger, having got into difficulties, had purloined them from his mother’s jewel-box, say that he must have a little time to assess their value and take them along for Lady Marie’s inspection that very evening.

The thought of his money-box at home began to tantalise Roger. In it there was gold as well as silver, and more than enough to pay his coach fare to London—if only he could manage to collect it. On more than one occasion he had been out on a ramble at night with his friend Jack Bond, when his mother thought him safely tucked up in his bed asleep, and had got back into the house, in the small hours, by way of his bedroom window. He wondered if he dared risk a clandestine visit to his room that night for the purpose of burgling his own money-box, and decided that it would be worth it, as he could at the same time collect a dozen other things that would be useful to him and that he had not the ready cash to buy at the moment. It would mean waiting until the household was fast asleep, but a few hours’ delay in the time of his setting out would make little difference.

Once he had secured the money he would walk into Southampton. It was thirteen miles; a longish trudge but no great matter for an active and healthy youngster. He could get there easily, before dawn, secure a seat in the morning coach, and be in London by the following evening.

At the thought of London, his optimism suffered a sharp decline. All Old Ben’s stories of cut-purses and thieves’ kitchens came back to him. He had very little idea what Georgina’s jewellery should fetch, but, at a guess, he put its worth at anything from two to five hundred guineas. To enter London with such a treasure seemed to be tempting providence; yet how could he dispose of it otherwise?

There were goldsmiths in Southampton, or at Winchester if he chose to break his journey there, who would give an honest price for what he had to sell; but the question was, would any of them do a deal with him? Would they not wonder where a youngster of his age had obtained this
small fortune in gold chains, brooches, buckles and bangles? He could think of no plausible explanation as to how he had come into possession of such property. If he were detained and an inquiry made, it could only result in his being ignominiously returned to his father.

The more he thought of the difficulty of dispersing of his spoil, the more worried he became about it. If only there had been someone to whom he could go immediately on reaching London—someone he knew and could trust—the transaction might have been arranged with safety and despatch, but he had not a single acquaintance there; and it now seemed to him that even endeavouring to sell single pieces in provincial towns would be fraught with a certain danger. Each attempted sale would expose him to the risk of questioning and detention.

The elegant figure of Droopy Ned drifted across his mind, bringing him fresh hope for a moment. He felt that he would be perfectly safe in confiding his whole story to Droopy and that the eccentric young nobleman, having a passion for jewels, would probably buy the whole collection from him; or at least, arrange a sale and see that he was not cheated. But the question was, would Droopy be in London?

All the odds were that he would not. At this season it was as good as certain that the Marquess of Amesbury would be at his seat, Normanrood, in Wiltshire, and that Droopy would spend at least a fortnight there taking leave of his family before setting out on the Grand Tour. It was probable that he would spend some days in London before actually leaving for the Continent but when that would be it was impossible to guess and it was even probable that he might elect to cross to France by the more direct route from Southampton.

In any case, it seemed to Roger, it would be a poor gamble to count on Droopy being at Lord Amesbury’s London house before mid-August and, in the meantime, a country boy with little ready money but a hoard of jewels stood a terrible risk of becoming the prey of the sharks that infested the poorer quarters of the capital.

While he was still pondering the thorny problem of converting his treasure into cash the outer door was thrust open and Dan Izzard came in. With a cheerful ‘Good day, young Squire’ to Roger, the smuggler advanced to the
narrow counter and banged upon it with an empty pewter pot. The serving maid came out of the back room and greeted him with a smile.

‘Is Master Trattle in?’ asked Dan; and on the girl nodding, he added: ‘Then go fetch he, wench, and I’ll thank thee for it.’

A moment or two later the burly, red-faced landlord appeared and asked Dan’s business.

The smuggler cast a casual glance over his shoulder at Roger, then leaned over the counter and, lowering his gruff voice, began to talk to the landlord.

Roger was still absorbed in his own affairs and, at first, did not pay much attention to the conversation. It was evident that Dan, knowing him to be ‘safe’ was indifferent as to if he listened or not, and he had jumped to it at once that the smuggler was arranging the shipment of a new supply of illicit spirits for the inn. But as his gaze rested idly on Dan’s broad back a sudden idea came to him.

For some minutes the two men continued their low-voiced talk; then, with a muttered: ‘That suit me, well enough; us’ll make it four nights from now,’ Dan turned away.

‘Dan!’ Roger called. ‘Wilt join me in a glass?’

The smuggler paused, halfway across the room. ‘Aye, Master Roger; I never say nay to a dram o’ good liquor. I’ll drink ‘e’s good health in a noggin o’ rum.’

Mr. Trattle poured the drink and disappeared to resume his afternoon nap. Dan picked it up and, with a smile, came and sat down at the table.

Lifting his glass he said: ‘Well, here’s long life to ’e, young Master. ’E’ve grown quite a bit since I last clapped eyes on ‘e, and soon it’ll be Mister Brook that us’ll all be touchin’ our caps to.’

‘That’s it, Dan,’ Roger smiled back, as he sipped his own cordial. The spontaneous lead that he had been given lent itself to the idea he was developing, and an easy distortion of facts came quite readily to his tongue. ‘My father is by way of getting me a midshipman’s commission, and I hope to be at sea in a month or two.’

‘Well, jus’ think o’ that now! ’Tis a fine life though; ’tis a fine life, Master Roger.’

‘I’ve never doubted that,’ Roger lied, adding after a second: ‘But it will take a lot of getting used to, and it’s that
which worries me. I’ll just die of shame, Dan, if I’m sick the first time my ship leaves port on a voyage.’

‘Why should ‘e be, Master Roger?’ Dan asked him in surprise. ‘I’s seen ’e often in they little yachts sailin’ round the island when it were blowin’ quite a bit, an’ ‘e seemed merry as a grig.’

‘But that’s different,’ Roger objected, ‘I may be sick as a dog in a big ship once she’s out in the open sea.’

‘Nay, ’tis not as different as all that. In a tempest, now, many a strong man’s belly turns over on ‘im ‘fore it’s blowed its out; but ‘e’ve naught to fear given normal weather.’

Roger sighed and looked down into his glass. ‘I would that I felt as certain as you do that I’ll not make a fool of myself. You see, I’ve never sailed farther than along the coast to Poole, or up to Southampton, and I haven’t an idea what it’s like in mid-channel.’

‘’Tis no different, I tell ‘e,’ Dan assured him; but he was now regarding the boy with thoughtful sympathy, assuming that some old salt must have scared him with tales of waves as high as mountains; and, to his simple mind, there was nothing strange in a land-lubber believing that it was always rough out in unprotected water.

Having planted this seed in the smuggler’s mind, Roger pretended to shrug away his own worries and asked: ‘How are things with you, Dan?’

‘Oh, well enough, Master Roger. There’s only one real worry I got. That bastard Ollie Nixon ‘as swore to get me, an’ ‘e’s darn nigh done it a brace o’ times since Whitsuntide.’