The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (42 page)

“I just want a bit of peace,” Gadd replied. “An' if it don't come soon, I'll be back to the Navy.”

“He's got a point,” Forsyth agreed. “Fighting Frenchman ain't exactly a quiet life, but at least you know who your enemy is.”

* * *

T
hat evening Griffin sat in the parlour at The Star, having just eaten a substantial portion of beef and kidney pie that had been topped off with one of the finest currant duffs he could remember. He felt full with food, beer – a local brew that was strong, dark and very bitter – and company. The latter was a borrowed pleasure; he sat alone, although the room was reasonably crowded and the buzz of nearby conversations gave it a warm and friendly feel. Griffin drained his tankard and considered ordering more: he felt in need of an early night, but there was still a chance that the girl might appear. A movement from behind caught his attention and he turned towards the door, but was disappointed to see three uniformed figures enter the room instead.

They were dragoon guard officers, he knew the uniform, and they carried themselves with the casual authority of professional soldiers. Griffin had encountered several members of the local volunteer militia when at Harwich and had not been impressed; the strutting attitude of some, together with their garish uniforms and overuse of military terms, made them appear like something from a caricature. Salutes were stiff and often unnecessary and none seemed to be able to make even the slightest move without the action being likened to a march. But these men were very different, and he watched with interest as they approached the landlord, who had clearly been summoned especially to look after them.

“What can I get for you gentlemen?” he asked, wiping his hands on a cloth and smiling professionally.

“We'll take beer, Mr Ward,” the older and more senior replied in a relaxed, almost offhand manner.

“No wine, major?” the landlord asked. “Or we have some spirits: maybe a little port?” Griffin noticed he did not offer brandy.

“Listen to the cove,” one of the juniors, who sported a magnificent set of side whiskers, simpered. “'We have some spirits...' Why I suspect there to be Crowling gin enough in your cellars to float the fleet to France.” The second gave a high-pitched nasal laugh that was both loud and grating.

“Beer, sir,” the major said resolutely. “It is the only drink you serve that we cannot expect to be smuggled.”

The landlord went through a pantomime of shock and amazement, but none of the dragoons took notice. The whiskered one even turned his back, and addressed the room in general.

“Any other of you fine and loyal Englishmen adverse to a spot of foreign liqueur?”

There was no response, although all conversation had long since dwindled to nothing more than the occasional whisper.

“Maybe join us in a bottle or two,” he continued, slapping his gloves against his hand as he swaggered. “Why, the major here would be happy to change his habit were it to our benefit.”

Griffin watched intently. His initial assessment had been wrong; professional they may be, and their dusty uniforms were certainly not for show, but these men shared other characteristics of their amateur colleagues.

“Why don't we sit and yarn?” the officer continued. “I'm sure a lot could be learned that we might find of interest.”

The drinkers regarded them with a silent hostility that seemed to amuse, and even encourage, the younger man. 

“I thought not, though I am certain that, if persuaded, you might relent.”

“Perchance that is what they require,” the second, who was no older, smirked. “A bit of persuasion, and there is no telling what we might learn. Sure the pitch cap would work as well on these shores as any other.”

“Leave them, Weston,” the senior officer replied. “You ain't in Ireland now: neither do we behave so to our own folk. Drink this, and we will be on our way; there is still several miles to cover before Lewes.”

The young officer laughed off the rebuke, and accepted the tankard that was handed to him. Conversations started again, but remained guarded. Then, when the officers had finished, and seemed about to depart, the silence returned again.

“We'll leave you to your pleasures, gentlemen,” the senior officer said, in an affable enough voice. “But don't think we are not aware what goes on hereabouts.” The man surveyed them briefly. “You may possibly continue a while longer, but we have our eyes on you, and it will take more than a group of London coxcombs to keep us at bay, of that you may be certain.”

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