*The Other Side of the Coin*

 

 

Forenote:  This story is based on actual events, although I have altered and compressed the chronology and combined two trials into one. Further details can be found in the Endnote.

 

This takes place in the same universe as The Privateer so expect a somewhat jaundiced view of canon Hornblower (who doesn’t actually appear) and of events in HH2.

 

WARNING: This story contains descriptions of torture.

 

 

***********************

 

 

Prologue

 

The inn parlour was like many of its kind throughout London: smoke-stained panelling on the walls, worn but comfortable settles, a well-built up fire on the hearth.  The man who stood before it was somewhat less typical.  He was strongly built, with short pale hair and a neat beard, nothing remarkable there, except that beards were not so common in fashionable London.  But the tan on his face and hands was darker than was usual amongst those who had known only the British sun, and an observant eye might have seen something outlandish in the cut of his neat, unostentatious clothes.  It would have taken a close look indeed, however, to spot another quality about him.  Something in the eyes and the mouth, something in the way he held his shoulders, something that spoke of danger with a bitter edge. 

 

The man was leaning against the high side of one of the settles, reading on his feet as he looked through a publication, the latest copy of the Naval Gazette.  Despite the casual flick of his calloused fingers he read the pages carefully, frowning a little at some of the entries.  Part of the way through he paused, his features graven and stony, the fingers of one hand picking again and again at the edge of a page as he stared grimly at a single entry, reading and rereading until he had the few lines memorised by heart.

 

It was nothing remarkable on the face of it, that entry.  Merely a brief note of the capture of a French merchant vessel by the frigate Lydia under the command of Captain Hornblower.  There were many similar entries in the Gazette’s every issue, but the knuckles of the man in the parlour were white with tension, as he looked down at the Gazette with hard, blue eyes that no longer saw the printed word.  Finally his mouth twisted sharply, and he at last turned the page, reading to the end of the Gazette with grim determination, as though there were some challenge to be met.  After finishing the last page he turned back to the entry he had stared at so long and read it over once more.  In a few quick steps, he walked over to the fire and tossed the Gazette straight into the flames.  Then he lifted the poker and pressed it down on the blaze, shifting it around until there was nothing left but crumbling ash.

 

 

One

 

Antonio Ruiz lived in a comfortable house not far from the main square which held the Trinidad government buildings, and he liked to be hospitable.  The captain who called himself Kenneth Ayre had refused an invitation to stay with Ruiz in favour of sleeping aboard his ship, but he was willing enough to dine with his associate.  Ruiz’s house was well kept, he himself mildly amusing company and he did not ask awkward questions.  The last point, of course, was only to be expected as the business arrangement between the two was not one that could be made public and Ruiz, a respectable trader on the outside, quite likely had other enterprises that did not bear close examination

 

Ruiz kept a good table and a pleasant supply of small talk, impressively effective really considering the two men had nothing in common save for those same business arrangements and these could not reasonably be discussed at dinner.  The girl who doubled as Ruiz’s housekeeper and as his mistress – a common arrangement in Trinidad – was in and out of the room during the meal and Ruiz had more sense than to risk her overhearing.  Serious discussion was therefore postponed until after dinner on the first evening, and Ruiz marked the dismissal of Luisa with a marked change of manner, the serious, although still carefully polite, businessman replacing the courteous host. 

 

“But you must accept” he was saying within a short while, “that it is impossible to pay you before I have managed a sale,”

 

“And you must accept that I am not prepared to do this for no return.”  Ayre had leaned casually back in his chair, supporting himself on the very edge of back and seat.  Unlike Ruiz he had not grown more official.

 

“Not for no return,” Ruiz protested.  “It is only a matter of time.”

 

“But how much time?” Ayre said pleasantly.  “You cannot reasonably expect me to deliver another consignment without having received any advance on the last,”

 

“It is not as though your voyage is profitless,” Ruiz said.  “The special delivery is a bonus for you.”

 

“Smuggling,” Ayre pointed out, “is against the law.  It’s hardly unreasonable to expect a return on my risk.”  Ruiz, who preferred careful euphemisms, looked pained.

 

“I was observing that you can afford to wait.”

 

“And I was saying that it would be stupid of me to smuggle you any more gems without some return from my previous cargo.”

 

Ruiz settled himself more comfortably in his chair, a gesture not lost on Ayre who knew the signs of a man settling in for a round of bargaining.  For his part Ayre straightened, discarding a little of his air of relaxation, although the wine drunk with dinner had blurred his responses somewhat.  Here was the real business.

 

Some time later Ruiz finally leaned back, swallowing freely from his drink for the first time that evening.  Ayre was by now regretting his own rather more heavy imbibing, which had undoubtedly put him at a disadvantage.

 

“Of course,” Ruiz said now with casual significance, “if the return on the package proves insufficient for you, another form of trade is likely to become available soon.”

 

Ayre frowned.  “If you’re talking about arms smuggling that’s pretty risky.  I’d want a significantly better profit.”

 

“I was not.  There is always a trade in arms somewhere.  No, I was speaking of a trade that is not illegal at present but likely to be so soon, at least in certain quarters.”  He paused, perhaps to see if greater explicitness would be necessary.  “The trade in slaves.”

 

“The slave trade!”  Ayre was startled, but then shook his head.  “Slave ships stink.”

 

“No ship is a model of fragrance,” said Ruiz.  “And consider.  Abolition of the trade is likely to come soon, but the market will not end.  A man prepared in advance to go into this line of business will make the kind of profit that always comes from being in advance of others.”

 

“I’ve been aboard slave ships,” Ayre replied, “And they’re always foul, no matter how well the sailors scrub them.  I’m not having that happen on any craft of mine.  Besides if you are boarded it would be a lot harder to conceal a deck full of slaves than a packet of diamonds.”  From that position he would not be budged.  Ruiz expended a certain amount of effort on persuasion, but finally gave up the effort and turned his attention to smoothing over any awkwardness that might have come from the refusal.   

 

Despite this failure Ayre had no doubt Ruiz would retire to the arms of his nubile Luisa in a contented mood.  He himself walked back to the port dissatisfied, knowing too well that Ruiz had come the better out of their bargaining.  The man would cheat him if he could, and once retired to his cabin he lay for some time considering other options without much success. 

 

#

 

The next day he performed his morning ablutions with only momentary satisfaction at the freshening of water.  Nonetheless he washed carefully, and checked his appearance in the small mirror, first for decency then taking a few moments for deeper observation, a habit formed years since, not from vanity but from a hope to see some decrease in his boyish looks.  A high colour beneath the ever-deepening tan, that was unsurprising.  He was drinking more than he should, he knew.   Something further, too, although he carried little spare weight his face bore a thickened look.  Well, they did say that all men in time had the face that they earned.

 

“You’re coarsening,” he said to his reflection, without any real feeling either way. 

 

It was not until early evening that he returned again to Ruiz’s house, where he was engaged to dine once more.  Port of Spain, the chief town of Trinidad was one of those places characteristic of the so called New World, with a kind of veneer of Europe imposed uneasily on something far more raw, and in this case complicated by the basically Spanish nature of that veneer being overlaid in part by English qualities.  Trinidad had been taken by British forces a few years back, and at the Peace of Amiens her inhabitants had, no doubt much to Spanish chagrin, chosen to remain under British rule. All this he knew, and did not think much about as he walked through the cooling streets. He got along well enough in Trinidad, his Spanish was entirely fluent now and the more unsavoury aspects of some of the areas he moved in had no more power to shock.

 

Like many in Trinidad Ruiz’s household dined late.  When he first stepped inside Ayre was not aware of anything wrong. Then Ruiz himself came quickly out from an inner room, a deep frown on the face that had been good humoured when last seen.  Even then Ayre was not conscious of anything unusual until Ruiz asked fiercely, “Did you see anything?”

 

“What do you mean?  What should I have seen?”

 

“I have been robbed,” Ruiz declared angrily.  “One of my trunks has been broken open, and I have been robbed of two thousand dollars!  Two thousand dollars in hard coin disappeared from my house and no-one claims to have seen a thing!” 

 

“Two thousand dollars,” Ayre echoed, somewhat stupidly, but it was indeed a large sum.  Still seething Ruiz had taken Ayre by the arm and almost towed him into an inner room, “Look, you can see where they broke in through the wall!”  Sure enough two of the planks had been prized away.  There were several huge chests in the room, like most people in these colonies where stability of rule was so uncertain Ruiz plainly preferred not to trust to banks.  Ayre wondered how many people knew in which room he kept his cash. 

 

“Two thousand dollars!”  Ruiz was evidently beside himself, “Two thousand dollars gone!”

 

“When?”  Ayre asked practically.  He did not feel inclined to make any displays of sympathy.

 

“How do I know?  The trunk was intact at noon.  I have only this moment discovered the loss.”  Ruiz kicked the empty trunk as though by that he could take out his fury.

 

Ayre shrugged, not inclined to feel any pity for Ruiz.  “I’ve only just got in.  I haven’t seen anything.”

 

“But you will come with me?”  Ruiz demanded.

 

“To where?”

 

“To report my loss.  I must report it this instant at the Government offices.  It would be better by far to have you with me.”

 

Ayre shrugged again.  He could see little point in getting involved since all he knew about the robbery was what Ruiz had told him, but humouring him now wasn’t likely to do any harm.

 

#

 

Ayre sailed out of Georgetown in what had until very recently been Dutch territory and was now part of the British colony of Guiana.  Washing up there very shortly after the colony changed hands he had seen trading opportunities open up almost beneath his feet

 

After returning to Georgetown it was never long before he sought out Robert Webster who lived in one of the large, white, wooden houses overlooking the Demerara river.  Webster was a trader too, but of a different kind, he was a middleman whose business was to put together the goods that Ayre and others like him would then ship outwards.  Ayre would have waved away any description of Webster as a friend but he was a regular associate and one to whom he gave as much regard as he allowed to any man these days.

 

“They arrested the girl,” he was saying now, lounging casually in one of Webster’s drawing room chairs.  “Ruiz’s mistress, Luisa.  And her mother, and this man Gonzalez, who was reckoned to be the actual thief.  He’d been seen hanging about the place and was supposed to be her lover on the side.  He was to be tried but they hadn’t found the money which Ruiz was pretty angry about.  They tortured the girl, but she couldn’t or wouldn’t say.”

 

“Tortured her?”

 

“Yes,” Ayre shifted, “Apparently the island is still governed by Spanish law, which allows it, although I was told the actual method was based on a British Army punishment.”  His mouth twisted sharply.  “The governor is an army man, of course.  She was a brave young woman, it seems.  It took nearly an hour for them to get her to accuse this Gonzalez, and she stuck to it that she was not his confederate.”

 

“A young woman tortured,” Webster said, “Do you truly mean to say that the British Governor approved of this?”

 

“He must have accepted it at least.”

 

“I wonder that you can tell me of it so calmly,” said Webster.  “Are we a tyranny, to approve such things?  Did you not protest?”

 

“Protest?  No.  Do you imagine the governor would have paid any attention to an insignificant trader?”

 

“And yet you could have tried,” Webster said.  “I would not like to think that you approve of such measures.”

 

“My dear Mr Webster, what earthly difference do you imagine my approval or disapproval can make in a case such as this?  From what I was told this torture is used as punishment on soldiers in the army, would the Horse Guards heed if I wrote to say I disapproved of that?  It’s not a matter I have any say in.”

 

“You’re a cold man,” said Webster.  Ayre looked at him and smiled.

 

“It’s odd you should say that.”

 

“Are you saying I’m wrong?”

 

“No, you’re right.  I just didn’t expect to hear it.”

 

“You think me ill-mannered, no doubt.”

 

“No, I don’t mind you being honest.  There’s too much hypocrisy around.”

 

“I suppose,” Webster said, “you mean to go on doing business with Ruiz?”  He did not keep the disapproval from his voice.

 

“Why not?  The torture wasn’t his doing.”

 

“Would you stop doing business with him if it had been?”

 

“Probably,” Ayre shrugged, “After all there is always a risk in doing business with men more unpleasant than the average.”  He tipped his head back, looking at Webster coolly.  “I’m shocking you, I suppose.  But I gave up banging my head against brick walls some time ago.”

 

#

 

Ayre’s own house was little more than a base to go back to.  He had not bothered to purchase a large property or to install more than basic furnishings.  His real life, such as it was, was all at sea.  The main room held chairs and a desk for papers, a small table and a mirror on the wall.  It was frowsty and dusty, he had not paid anyone to tend to it in his absence, but that also was unimportant.

 

A cold man, Webster had called him.  Did others see it as clearly, or did, as he had always assumed, the ready smile and easy manner mask the chill beneath?  He didn’t really care.  But he felt restless. 

 

“A good battle would set you up,” he said, holding his own eyes in the dust-covered glass.  Talking to himself was an eccentric habit, but no harm done as long as he only did it when alone.  “But there’s no chance of that in a cockle shell like Casilia.  You couldn’t even fight off a privateer.”  Well, no use hankering.  Perhaps in a larger vessel – but traders were not meant to be hunters and he’d just have to accept it. 

 

He took his seat at the desk, unlocked it and laid out some of the papers he had brought ashore, carefully checking accounts.  This was a part of his life he disliked but it had to be faced if he was to make any progress.  He was only part owner of little Casilia, if he was aiming for better things he had to make himself a man of business as well as a sailor.  Things had gone well for him the last couple of years, almost amazingly well in fact, but he was not satisfied.  He wanted independence, and the kind of standing which would make others see him as a man to heed. 

 

Later that night he would go out in search of distraction.  Georgetown was a town where there were always people awake, the growing influx of fortune seeking Britons giving a feverish gloss to what a few years ago had been a sleepy Dutch trading post.  A town of contradictions, ancient and brash, settled and ramshackle.  Ayre rather liked it.  Life here had its good side.  But he must remember not to drink too much. 

 

And not to feel too much.

 

 

Two

 

It was almost two years later that Ayre walked up towards Robert Webster’s house with a decided spring in his stride.  Matters were going well for him. Both the legal and the illicit trading were turning a pretty profit and a long sea chase running from a French predator had tested his skills and invigorated his blood.  He still regretted not getting a chance to be the chaser, but you couldn’t have everything.

 

Webster and his wife, Judith, were in what they called their drawing-room.  It was an airy, spacious place which was lavishly furnished by Georgetown standards although it would have seemed crude by those of London society.  Ayre had been in the room many times without thinking much about it but today he looked with pleasure.  A nice room and nice owners.  He hoped he and Webster could do more business together.

 

“Oh, so you are back.” It was a less polite reception than he was used to getting from Webster. 

 

“And did you have a reason in mind why I should not be back?” he asked lightly.

 

“No, I knew you would be sooner or later.  But there was a man looking for you.  He came here?”

 

“Oh?” Ayre tried to keep his tone neutral.  “I suppose it was business.”  From the other man’s grim expression it seemed all too likely to be the illicit business that Webster had not known about.  If he was going to take it badly that would be difficult.

 

“A Spaniard,” Webster said, forbiddingly.  “From Trinidad.”

 

“Trinidad? But I’ve just been there.”

 

“He missed you, it seems.  He expected you to return before him, but you were not here.”

 

“That’s on account of being chased halfway to Brazil by a damned persistent Frenchman.”  A reminiscent smile played around Ayre’s lips.  “Haven’t had such a run in years.”

 

“Oh.”  Webster paused then seemed to dismiss the matter of the delay.  “He learned, it seems, that we do business together and so he came here.”

 

“So who is he and what does he want?”

 

“I don’t know his business but his name is Juan Montes.  Or that’s what he told me.”  Ayre suppressed a smile.  It was one of Webster’s weaknesses to be profoundly suspicious of any man not of British origin on first acquaintance.

 

“Montes?  Means nothing to me.”

 

“Well, I can give you his direction if you really wish to find out what he wants.”

 

“Might be good business,” Ayre took the proffered slip.  “Thanks, anyway.”

 

“Business no doubt, but whether good depends on what you mean by the word,” Webster said darkly.  “But I daresay that wouldn’t trouble you.”

 

So Webster did suspect his illegal dealing.  Ayre thought it better not to reply.  He couldn’t feel any scruples about smuggling.  Silence however only seemed to irk the older man.  “ ‘Sailing near the wind’, that’s what you sailors say, don’t you?  I suppose you enjoy it.”

 

“Just what have you been hearing?” Ayre’s tone was serious this time, if there was real trouble in the offing he wanted to know.

 

“Nothing concrete.  Just talk.”

 

“Oh, I don’t mind talk.”  Not entirely true but he didn’t mind people saying he was a rogue.

 

“I sometimes wonder what you do mind,” Webster snapped, leaving Ayre to wonder if there was real dislike in his tone. 

 

“Let’s stay with the point shall we?  Are you prepared to go on doing business despite what you consider my reckless sailing habits?”

 

“For now at least,” Webster said, a little ominously, leaving Ayre with the feeling that he was being dealt with only for the lack of anyone better.  Which would be well enough until someone better came along.  “I need to talk to you further about our business sometime.  But not tonight.  My wife and I were having a quiet night in.”    Ayre’s gaze moved briefly to Judith, who had been sitting quietly sewing throughout, not delicate embroidery like a lady of fashion but what looked like a shirt for her husband.  Although saying not a word during the conversation she did not give the impression of having been inattentive.

 

“Then I will not take up your time,” he said, obscurely disappointed at being deprived of an evening of congenial company.

 

#

 

He was fairly sure that he had never set eyes on Montes before.  The man was distinctive in appearance, middle-aged with a thin, intense face and a certain precision of dress which suggested the military.  His clothes implied wealth and he carried an air of distinction.  One could never be sure but Ayre thought it unlikely that this man had come to discuss the shadier areas of trade.  It took time to discover what he had come for because he followed the usual Spanish custom of lengthy preliminary courtesies.  Ayre was impatient with such things but common sense told him to forbear, for men like Montes could not be rushed. 

 

“I am sure that you must be surprised to receive a visit from a man who is such a stranger to you as myself,” Montes said at length.

 

“I am certainly curious,” Ayre said carefully.  No point in rushing in.  Age did bring with it some discretion.

 

“I believe that you were present on the occasion of some theft from the property of Antonio Ruiz.”

 

“I was,” Ayre replied.  Was this some legal formality to do with that business?  He had thought for certain that it would all be over now and how much use could his evidence be anyway?

 

“And on the occasion of the torture of the mulatta girl Luisa Calderon?”

 

“I was not present at the torture.”

 

“But you saw her afterwards.”

 

“Briefly, yes.  Forgive me, but what is your interest in this matter?”

 

“I will be simple,” Montes said.  “There is an intention to try the former governor of Trinidad for inflicting the torture on Luisa Calderon.”

 

Ayre was taken thoroughly aback.  “The governor? Can you try him?”

 

“We mean to most certainly make the attempt.”

 

Ayre controlled his astonishment carefully.  “On what grounds?  If the law of Trinidad permits it…?”

 

“That is the question the trial will stand on!”  Montes’s voice was suddenly fierce and eager, he leaned forwards, gravity forgotten.  “Is it permitted under the law that rules Trinidad?  Your compatriots tell me it is not allowed in England, so the question must be: did the law of England or the law of Spain pertain in Trinidad?  And if the law of Spain, did it extend to permitting torture?”

 

“No doubt a fascinating argument for lawyers.” Was there something of the legal professional about Montes?  “But not a question for a man who sails ships.”

 

“No, no, of course not.  But we will need witnesses to the mistreatment that was inflicted on the girl, Luisa.”

 

“You have not yet told me,” Ayre said, “who you mean by ‘we’.  Just who is behind this scheme of yours?”

 

“It was initially the work of a group of islanders, who hoped to put a stop to this most abhorrent practice.  The leaders, if you wish for names, are myself and Don Pedro de Vargas, an advocate on our island.”  Ayre frowned, feeling that the name of Vargas was familiar, but he could not recall anything about the man except that he was said to be of somewhat uncertain temper.  “Recently,” Montes went on “we have gained a most valuable associate in the man appointed to be joint governor of the island.  He is one of your compatriots, of course, his name is Colonel William” – he pronounced the ‘W’ with great care – “Fullarton.”  That name Ayre certainly recognised as, amongst other things, one of two men who had recently been joined with the former sole governor to make a triumvirate.  It certainly did give Montes more impressive credentials if he had Fullarton’s support.

 

“And you plan to go about it – how exactly?  There would be a certain difficulty surely in putting the governor of Trinidad on trial in Trinidad.”

 

“Of course there would,” Montes said seriously.  “The trial must take place in London.”

 

“Uh-huh.  And so I suppose you expect me to just abandon everything here to sail across the Atlantic and tell to a courtroom things that a dozen other people must have seen at least as well as I did.”

 

“Expect – perhaps not.  But I hope you will.  You see, however important the technicalities of law may be to this case we will still need to impress the nature of the torture, the severity of the crime committed, on the minds and hearts of one of your British juries.”  Montes was speaking earnestly, a current of contained passion beneath his words.  “We will have other witnesses, it is true.  But it would be of great value to have one of their own countrymen describe to them what had been done.  I know that this will mean loss of business for you but it would be of great value to us if you would agree.”

 

Ayre leaned back in the chair.  They were in the room that Montes had hired in one of Georgetown’s better hostelries.  “Why?”  he said abruptly. 

 

“I have told you –”

 

“No, no, I don’t mean that.  I mean: why are you doing this?  What is the torture of a Luisa Calderon to you?”

 

“A blot upon the island of Trinidad,” Montes replied.  “It was not an isolated case, you know.  There have been other cruelties inflicted in the name of law.  There have been deaths.  We selected the case of Luisa Calderon as the most likely to succeed in court.”

 

“You want – retribution?”

 

“What I want,” said Montes, “is to put a stop to such practices.  I want to make sure that such practices are banished from Trinidad and from all of the West Indies that are under British rule.”

 

“Fine words.  It all sounds very noble, but I wonder if you really understand what you are taking on?”

 

“The important thing is the end, not the opposition.”  There was no mistaking the fire in Montes now.

 

“A crusader.”  Ayre’s tone was ironic.  “Forlorn hopes are most romantic, but I am afraid you have picked the wrong man to assist you, Senor.  I don’t tilt at windmills.”

 

“I had anticipated some difficulty in persuading you,” Montes although still infused with urgency, seemed not to have been taken aback by Ayre’s response.  “As a Britisher yourself you would naturally be reluctant to challenge the authority of your government’s representative.”

 

Ayre shook his head sharply.  “It isn’t that.  I don’t mind seeing their tails tweaked in the least.  But I’m not interested in spending my time and money for a dream of yours, however pretty.  And righteous battles against the odds have a way of extracting heavy tolls.”

 

“Perhaps the odds are not so great as you suppose.  We have not embarked upon this endeavour without both preparation and consideration.  And Colonel Fullarton’s support is weighty, you must acknowledge that.”

 

“But your opposition is weightier.”

 

“Even if we lose,” Montes said, “the fight will still have been worthwhile.  We will make people see and know what has been happening in Trinidad.  Such things must be fought or they will never be prevented. 

 

“You will say, no doubt, that such are the words of a dreamer.  Senor, I have been what you would call a practical man for much of my life.  But here I chose not to be guided solely by practicality or self-interest.  I chose to do the thing the thing that is right.  Have you never known a moment in your life when you could chose to turn away, and be practical or to make a stand for something outside of yourself?” 

 

Ayre looked away from Montes, more determined than ever not to get involved. 

 

“The rewards of choosing right may not be tangible.”  A late convert to idealism plainly, and like all late converts imbued with fire.  How long would that fire endure, met with the ice that he would find in London?

 

“I respect your sincerity,” Ayre said slowly, and that much was true.  “But I repeat I am not the man to help you.  In such a matter I have nothing to offer.”

 

“That surely is your own choice.”

 

“Less so than you might think.  Some are natural crusaders and others bring no benefit to such a cause.” 

 

“Think about it,” Montes said.  “Just think.  I realise it is asking quite a lot to expect you to travel across the Atlantic and abandon the business that is your livelihood, but we might be able to provide at least partial compensation.”

 

“Are you serious about that” Ayre asked in surprise.  “If you are making the offer to all potential witnesses then it would surely cost you a pretty penny.”

 

“We are making selection, naturally.  And a number of people are contributing.  Money is a means to an end, and this end is one important to many.”

 

“Simply to satisfy my curiosity, senor, how much support do you have in Trinidad.”

 

“I will not lie to you and claim support is universal,” Montes said with deliberate frankness  “Indeed there are many who side with the governor.  But we do have a number of supporters.”

 

“You must be fairly splitting the island.”  Ayre commented.  Montes diplomatically ignored that.

 

“As I have said, senor, I would not expect your answer immediately.  It will be many months before we can hope to see real progress.  If you wish to negotiate compensation I am at your service.”

 

“Persistent, aren’t you.  I thought I’d made it plain there was nothing to negotiate.”

 

“Just think it over,” said Montes.

 

 

Three

 

Practicality was all that was on Ayre’s mind when he walked to Webster’s house again to see if the man had any further trade for him.  He had no desire to continue dwelling on Montes and the request that he had made.  Better to think on his trading future.  It would be a pity if he had to stop dealing with Webster, the man was the best of his kind in Georgetown, and the most honest.

 

It was an unsatisfactory meeting.  Webster seemed preoccupied, unwilling to get down to hard details.  Ayre was not inclined to be overly patient.

 

“If you don’t want to do further business with me, man, just say so.  I would prefer your honesty to your evasions.”  The reply surprised him.

 

“Have you ever thought,” Webster said, “of taking your skills further afield.”

 

“And what does that mean?”

 

“There’s not so much profit in the Caribbean trade.  Timber from Guiana, pitch from Trinidad, it’s well enough but it’s not where the real profit lies.  You have to cross the Atlantic for that.” 

 

Ayre’s look sharpened, he kept his eyes carefully on Webster’s face.  “I know it.  But Casilia is not the craft for such a voyage.”

 

“There are other ships,” Webster said.  “I know you’ve been looking around, seeking an interest in something larger.  Well, I want to expand my horizons.  We might help each other.”

 

“Are you offering me a partnership?”  It was entirely the opposite of what he had expected.

 

“No, not offering, not yet.  It was simply a possibility for consideration.  I may not be ready to invest for a while.  In the meantime there are such things as hired vessels, rented space.  I’m at an early stage of consideration here.  I was unsure whether or not to discuss the idea with you.  Especially as business may be taking you to London.”

 

Ayre put down his glass abruptly.  “And what gave you that idea.”

 

“I did.”  Judith Webster’s calm voice surprised him momentarily. “I sat next to Senor Montes at a dinner party recently and learned the reason for his presence here.”

 

“Montes had no right to speak of it.  And I made him no promises.”

 

“Have you refused then?”

 

“Wait,” Ayre stood up, hands going to his hips.  “Did you bring up this whole subject in the belief you could talk me into going?  Because I know enough to be sure that you will think that Montes is in the right of things.”

 

“He is,” Webster said with certainty.  “And I did want to know your intentions.  But it’s true enough that I am considering expanding into trade with England.”

 

“Well, at least that is honest.”  He leaned downwards now, resting his arms on the chair back.  And what should I read from your interest in my plans?  That you are only interested in forming partnership with me if I throw my lot in with Montes?”

 

“That sounds as though I am making it a bribe,” It was Webster who stood up now and paced restlessly.  “Should I not want a clearer idea of a man’s character before I take such an important step?  And I said it was only at the stage of consideration in any case.”

 

“Have you ever found me an unsatisfactory associate?” Ayre said quietly. 

 

“No.  In matters of business you have always been perfectly reliable.”

 

“If you chose to work only with men of unspotted character then I fear you will be narrowing your choices to an unfeasible extent.  And even then you are likely to be disappointed.  Although that depends to some degree on which standards you chose.  You will find more chance of at least outward conformity to those standards which the world praises.”

 

“Worldly praise is not the point.”

 

“It is for most, and not all of them even hypocrites.”  Ayre straightened.  “I think this talk has gone as far as it profitably can.  I may as well take my leave of you.”

 

“Does this mean you wish to do no further business with me?” Webster asked stiffly.

 

“No.  Why should it?  I’ve done well from my dealings with you.”

 

“Why don’t you want to go to London?” Judith Webster asked swiftly.  Ayre swung round, a little startled by the directness of the question.

 

“Because it’s a fool’s errand.”

 

“But if you would lose nothing?”

 

“And how could I ever be sure of that?  Crusades are dangerous.  I told you: I don’t run my head against brick walls.  I’ll leave that to men like Montes.” 

 

#

 

He would not be coerced, he told himself angrily.  He would not be pushed into taking any action simply because it would be awkward to stop working with Robert Webster.  And whatever Webster might say he felt angrily certain that refusal would end their association sooner or later. 

 

He needed a drink.

 

The spirit warmed him, chased some of the blankness away from his gut.  Perhaps he should ask whether there was a strong reason not to go to London.  Had he not prided himself on practicality these past years?  Then ask what the practical reasons were?  If he would not lose money, then was there a good reason not to go?

 

The obvious one was the danger.  That was the thing of which Montes and Webster knew nothing, of course.  And danger there must be, but would it be very great?  What were the chances of recognition?

 

The mirror again, wiped clear of dust this time.  The beard changed the look of his face, certainly.  Shortened hair and a deeper tan, lines had begun to come and there was the thickening he had marked before.  Not such great changes but his features were hardly exceptional.  And how many people in those past days had ever looked, really looked.  Precious few he was sure and those not so likely to attend the sort of court which Montes had in mind.  Years past, and no-one would be looking.  No, not such great danger there.  So what was it that he feared?

 

He could tell himself Montes was a romantic fool, he could belittle his chances of success, he could ask why Kenneth Ayre should care about what the whole thing anyway, and yet…  he could not forget the fire in Montes or the memories it had brought back.  It made you feel so alive to be that way, there was such intoxication in belief.  But strong drink dwindled to a hangover, and fire left nothing behind but ash. 

 

No more of that.  He’d act in no more dramas.  Because he’d fail, he’d always failed when he tried to reach for something higher, even when he thought that he asked little it turned out to be too much.  Survive and be practical, that was the thing.  No more shattered delusion.  No more of the pain. 

 

He poured another drink, and swirled it, facing the unwelcome knowledge of his fear.  Not a thing to be proud of, was it?  An acknowledgement of weakness.  For if he guarded his soul and did not allow himself to care then what was there to be afraid of? 

 

Was that what he was now, then?  A man afraid to do a thing for its own sake?  Was survival an end in itself?  What would he see when he met his eyes in the mirror in twenty years?

 

“Oh, what’s it matter?” he snarled aloud.  “Who is there left to care?”  He tipped back the rest of the glass.  He was going to get some sleep.

 

#

 

Move the feet.  Move the feet and keep the wrist flexible and – parry.  Riposte and keep moving.  Feel the swifter pace of blood and harder breaths as the exercise sank in.  Thrust and parry and move, heart singing in the health of his body and the skill that he owned.  It was for his own delight, but it was display as well, the men would be watching and this they would appreciate, this was the kind of exercise an officer should indulge in.

 

Slash and move and – he let that one through although he could have blocked and acknowledged his opponent’s breathless smile with a nod.  Horatio was no great swordsman, he could have gained the upper hand and kept it if he had wanted, but he did not want.  This was sport, this was exercise, this was for show and there was no point in making it too uneven. There would be no joy in that.

 

Move and thrust and – a hit of his own and he laughed, fiercely happy. In that moment his life was full of joy and he savoured it, heart and soul, even as he cut and thrust and parried….

 

A slip of the foot, he glanced down and saw that he had slid in blood.  A Spaniard slashed at him, he evaded the blow, then slipped under the man’s guard and skewered him neatly.  The Renowns were rallying, fighting back well, but it was going to be a close thing.  He kicked out at another man, and felt the blow connect, blood surging with the heat of battle.  A close thing, but he was not worried.  If they won they did, and if they lost he’d be dead and no bad way to go.   

 

He felt something strike him, but there was no time for that now.  There was another man before him and defeating this enemy was the thing that mattered.  He kept at it, even as breathing grew harder and only when the man was fallen, only when he looked round for new enemies and found none, only then did he know he had been hit, only then did he feel the pain begin to take him….

 

Another step, and another, head held high, they would see no weakness of mind.  It hurt, it hurt more than anything he would have believed that he could bear.  But it was only for a little while.  Soon there would be no more struggling. 

 

Courage now.  Speak up and keep the voice clear, there must be no doubts.  Then it would be over and they could do whatever they chose with him.

 

Head up, he let his eyes clear and focus for the first time on the bench above, straight into the face of the president.  Strong, lean features above the gold-braided uniform, the greying hair rigidly controlled, the deep-set eyes were merciless.  He was not surprised.  He had known what to expect.

 

Commodore Hornblower brought the gravel down hard.  “Take this man down!”

 

He would not scream.  He refused to scream.  He bit hard into his lip and kept his eyes on that hard, hostile face as the rough hands dragged him away….

 

He woke.  The room felt stifling.  His breathing was ragged and he could hardly drag enough air into his lungs.  As he ordered thoughts and memory the old familiar ache began to grow and blossom, so that he screwed his eyes tight shut and drew back his lips so that his teeth were bared.  It was truly a physical pain.  Not as bad as the Spanish bullet that had saved his life all those years ago, but more than sharp enough.

 

Damn.  Damn.  How many years would he have to live with this?  So much time had slid away, surely he ought to be able to bury the past?  True, the pain did not come nearly so often as it once had.  Not like those first days and nights which only the determination not to break again had dragged him through.

 

But it ought to be long meaningless.  What had he really lost?  Nothing that any sensible man could point to and say: here was a thing of value.  What kind of a weakling was he, to be still fretting on it now?

 

He got up, and, without bothering to find a light, padded through into the next room to find the brandy. The burn of the spirit, drunk straight from the bottle, refreshed him, but he made himself stop after two hard swallows. 

 

Gold braid.  Men who talked of Duty and Honour.  The stench of power.

 

God damn the lot of them.

 

His mind was suddenly made up.  No logic, and practicality forgotten, but he knew that he would not go back upon this choice.

 

He was going to London.

 

 

Four

 

The familiar white cliffs of England’s southern coast were masked in an equally familiar soft, grey rain.  It was odd to feel a real lift of the heart at such very unwelcoming weather.  Maybe the old ties were stronger than he had realised. 

 

It had been a good run.  By far the longest voyage he had yet made in command, and he felt the better for it.  Long days of clear running a across the Atlantic with unbroken horizons surrounding the ship beneath him, nights of falling asleep to the familiar sound of creaking timber.  Ah, that was his world.  It didn’t seem to him like such a bad thing to be the Flying Dutchman and condemned to sail forever.  But now the voyage was over, and he was surprised by how welcome the sight of England was.

 

Return of the wanderer.  A slight, ironic smile curved his mouth.  The prodigal was hardly appropriate since there would be no fatted calves.  His father had died suddenly whilst he was aboard Renown, he would certainly have made contact long since otherwise, for he had been fond of the old rake.  But he had never been close to his brothers and did not suppose they mourned.  Hardly a homecoming, then, but he would enjoy seeing London again. 

 

First, however, there would be responsibilities to attend to, for he had made the voyage as a working captain.  They were to make landing at Dover, and although Webster had given him the names of a few contacts most of the business of discharging the cargo would be his to organise.  He faced it as a challenge, fresh ground for him and probably not business that he’d particularly enjoy, but it would have to be done.

 

Only then would he be able to complete his journey to London, although he might gather news of how the Calderon prosecution was going before that.  Montes and his confederate Vargas were already in London he knew.  And with them was the most surprising convert to the cause, Colonel William Fullarton.

 

#

 

Fullarton was someone who he did know by reputation, although it had taken some enquiry to confirm that this man was the same one that had been on visiting terms with his father.  William Fullarton was an Ayrshire man whose estates lay close to those of the various Kennedy branches, and he was a late representative of a dying breed, the officer who rose straight to high rank by the simple means of raising his own regiment.  It would be wrong to think of him as an amateur however, he had done well in India. Returning home he had settled into the life of a country gentleman, interesting himself in agriculture and sitting as an MP.  That had been the last that Ayre had heard of him until he had suddenly popped up as one of the commissioners for Trinidad a few years past and he was still not entirely sure how that had come about.

 

He had never before met Fullarton in person.  The colonel was fiftyish, but looked unhealthy for his age, with the yellowish tinge to his features that often came from service in India.  He had that distinct quality of intensity about him that Ayre had already remarked in Montes. 

 

Fullarton had chosen to issue a dinner invitation, which Ayre was pleased by.  It was a polite gesture, and if Fullarton had been worried about what kind of man would be sitting at his table, and was relieved to see that the trader had perfectly good manners, he covered it well.  The meal itself was good, but he limited his intake of wine carefully, correctly expecting the business talk to come when the meal was concluded and the port appeared.

 

The change from pleasure to business was handled quite briskly, Fullarton making no attempt to conceal the fact that here lay the real reason they were in the same room.  Not that matters had been awkward up to this point, it had, after all, been possible to pleasantly compare impressions of Trinidad and the West Indies generally.  Now, however, Fullarton was businesslike.  It was, he said, still uncertain when the case would come to trial, and indeed there were still strong interests working to prevent it happening at all. He wanted to know if it would suit Captain Ayre to remain for some time in England.

 

“I can’t honestly say it would suit me.” Ayre replied.  “But it would be possible.  I did think that this might happen.

 

“And you are willing to remain?” Fullarton asked intently.  “I would prefer that you say so now if you are not.”

 

“In for a penny, in for a pound.  If I am going to do this there’s no point in being half-hearted.”  Fullarton nodded, as if pleased by the answer.

 

“Your testimony will be of the first importance since it shall be delivered in English.  One thing I have observed is that words which have to be translated inevitably lose some of their effect.  None of our other witnesses are fluent in the English tongue.  But I understand you were not present on the actual occasion of the torture.”

 

“Well of course I was not!  Did you really think I’d stand there watching?”  Fullarton seemed to miss the sharpness of the response. 

 

“It is a pity from the point of view of the case.  We will have to rely on prison guards and the like, although there is the girl herself.  But she has very little English”

 

“She’s here?”

 

“Certainly she is here.  One of the reasons this case was chosen as the example to bring forward is that the girl can give her own testimony.  She should make a nicely vulnerable impression on the jury, although the fact of her being Ruiz’s mistress will tell unfortunately.”

 

“Surely it’s the fact of the torture that matters,” Ayre said impatiently, “not who it was done to.”

 

“Ideally, yes.  But I have enough experience to know that a jury may always be swayed by its emotions.  We must play to that.  Besides, winning the case is not the sole object here.  The aim is to bring these abuses to as wide an audience as possible.  Luisa Calderon is well suited for that purpose.  The mistreatment of so young a girl cannot fail to capture the public imagination.”  Although Fullarton spoke with a more measured gravity than Montes had done there was, once again, no mistaking his sincerity.  Ayre sighed.

 

“I have said that I will testify, Colonel, but I cannot undertake to help you in influencing the public mood.”

 

“Of course not,”  Fullarton dismissed the words.  “I never imagined that.”  Ayre suppressed a grimace.  Of course a not very reputable trader would be of no help in influencing the views of the public.  “No, pamphlets, that is the thing.  We need to alert people to the fact that this is no isolated case.  I have some experience in penning, fortunately.”

 

“Will not the opposition resort to the same tactics?”

 

“I am sure they will.  We just have to make sure our pamphlets are better.”

 

The rest of the evening was fairly inconclusive.  There was, after all, little that could be discussed at this stage, but Ayre also gathered the impression that Fullarton did not expect very much of him.  Probably that was wise.

 

#

 

He had engaged a comfortable room for himself at a prosperous inn.  No need to stint, if Captain Ayre was no nabob he was at least prosperous.  There was a strange pleasure in the familiarity of the place, not this place itself, for he had never been there before, but in its typicality.  A very English inn, pleasant and bustling and just a little shabby.  London itself hadn’t changed much, some slight shiftings of fashion but that was all.  He had spent a happy afternoon just strolling and making future plans.  Certainly he would take in a play or several whilst he was here, visit the bookstores, get himself some new boots too, it was hard to find decent ones in the Caribbean.

 

He picked up a copy of the Navel Gazette on his way back to the inn that afternoon.  Curiosity would most certainly drive him to it in the end, might as well face it now and have done.  He deliberately chose to open it in the public drawing room downstairs, having an odd conviction that some things were better done in public.

 

The Gazette was much the same as it had ever been, although it seemed to him that there were somewhat fewer victories to report.  Perhaps that was just his fancy, or perhaps the seas were truly becoming denuded of foes to fight.  He noted a few half-familiar names without much feeling, except a certain wry detachment.  But on an inner page he found the name that struck like a sharp blow to his gut.  He had thought it might be here, of course he had.  Yet there had been no way to prepare.

 

An unremarkable entry in itself.  A notice of the capture of a French merchantman, by the frigate Lydia, commanded by Captain Hornblower, under the authority of an admiral based at Portsmouth.

 

He was furious with himself that it should matter.

 

Captain of a frigate.  Yes, that should make him happy, or as happy as a man of his temperament could be.  Command and prizes and no doubt a fine reputation in the service, for as much as that was worth.  No doubt Captain Hornblower would think it worth something.  He ought to be pleased for him.

 

Portsmouth.  There was a chance the Lydia would still be in harbour.  He wasn’t likely to be needed in London for a few days.  He could go down there, make some inquiries….

 

But he wouldn’t, of course.  And not just because the danger of recognition would be much greater in a naval port.  Captain Hornblower wouldn’t want to see him, not after the letter he had written on Renown and he had no desire to see disgust in the eyes of his one time friend.  Even if the letter had never been written he couldn’t honestly imagine a joyful reunion, only a stilted attempt to be cordial on both parts.   Horatio would be wholly the Navy’s man by now, and he… he shook his head slightly.  What could they possibly agree on?

 

Love is not love which alters where it alteration finds….  But either Will Shakespeare had been wrong for once or, more likely, he was thinking only of changes in outward appearance.   He would have loved his Horatio maimed or mutilated, but he had seen the beginning of deeper changes in the last years of their friendship and he did not believe that he would love Captain Hornblower.

 

Let it go.  You couldn’t live someone else’s life.  He might feel inclined to spit when he thought of Horatio dutifully shaping himself to be what that sink of rottenness called a good officer, but it really wasn’t his affair.  It was his choice.

 

He read the rest of the Gazette out of obstinacy, although it was hard to concentrate on the words. Finally he turned back to the page with the entry about the Lydia and read it over, just once.  Then he walked to the fire and tossed the Gazette into the flames.

 

 

Five

 

Drury Lane hadn’t changed much.  There were new stars in the firmament, but the theatres were the same.  Still the glitter and the rowdyness that he had so loved as a boy, still the tiers of boxes where the rich came in their best to be seen as much as to see, still the licentious stalls beneath.  A few new plays on offer, but they were variations on the old.  He had chosen The Rivals, not feeling in the mood for tragedy and the absurd antics still seemed fresh.

 

He still loved theatre going, yet when the show was over it was not the same.  Once he would have gone straight backstage, to laugh and mingle.  Now?  A colonial captain with money to spend would likely be welcome, but it would be the welcome given an outsider.

 

He supposed that in theory he had been an outsider all those years go as well, a visitor to the world of greasepaint and painted scenery and ever shifting parts.  But the young lord’s son, still a child in so many ways, had been given a child’s license by the sentimental theatre folk, welcomed into their midst and treated, he could see from this range, rather like an enthusiastic puppy.  And when he had come back in his uniform, with battle and death behind him, his old friends had still seen the child they had known, the puppy who had learned some clever new tricks.  Now… too many years, too much change.  No, he would not go back stage.  Why spoil some perfectly pleasant memories?

 

The realisation left him dissatisfied, he had come back, but he wasn’t home.  Restless, he did not wish to simply return to his lodgings, lie down and sleep.  This was London and he wasn’t tired.  He should make the best of the capital while he was here.

 

There had been a man, at that reception a couple of days ago.  Captain Ayre was by now receiving invitations, not from the highest level of Society, of course, but from those on the fringes of the real Quality or just below.  From people who found his background intriguing, who had heard his dress and manners were acceptable.  And there had been a man, a man who had discreetly inquired whether his new acquaintance had any interest in gaming, a man who had mentioned the location of a certain club, a very discreet establishment, but if his name was given then most certainly the visitor would be made welcome.

 

The visitor in question had not grown up in the household of a confirmed gambler without learning how to smell a Captain Sharp when he met one, and he had no doubt that the discreet club would be a full blown gaming hell.  But he wanted recklessness: if he couldn’t risk blood he could always risk money.  Not cards, he was no very skilled player, nor did he intend to trust to the honesty of the hell’s habitués.  But there were other games; dice, perhaps the new fangled rouge et noir.  He would likely lose, but he could look on it as a price for alleviating boredom. 

 

#

 

The place was an entertainment in itself, Ayre decided.  Having for years heeded those around him only as much as was needed for his own survival he was just beginning to discover the amusement to be had from observation.  Most of the men in the room were types he was familiar with, in one way or another.  He could recognise the hardened gamblers and rakes; the young greenhorns here to be plucked; the rich Cits looking on this as the height of sophistication; and of course the predators.  A little less expected had been the occasional glimpse of Naval blue, but on reflection it was not so surprising.  Naval officers ashore, pockets full of prize money, blood as quick to thrill to danger as his own, yes, inevitable that some should find their way to this place, a target for the circling sharks, no doubt. 

 

Yes, there was entertainment to be had, and he did not regret having come here, but sometimes it was better not to pay any further price. He resented being too much of a victim, however deliberately he had made the choice.

 

He put the dice down, and rose to his feet, only a little unsteadily.  Holding one’s alcohol was a skill which came with practice. 

 

“Had enough?” the man sitting opposite asked with a slight sneer.

 

“I don’t believe my luck will change,” he strongly suspected that the dice were weighted but could not be troubled to do more than put some heavy significance into his voice.  The other man could take him up on it if he chose, but he merely produced another sneer, leaning back in his chair and shifting the dice from hand to hand. 

 

Ayre paused for a last look around the room, and this time one man in particular caught his eye.  Too dark for an Englishman – did he recognise him?  Yes, he decided at last, he had met the man at Montes’s lodgings, could not quite recall his name at present but he was most certainly here as a witness.    He was also, to judge from the look of him, drunk, and to judge from Ayre’s experience of the place most probably out of his depth. 

 

With a mental sigh he crossed to the man and told him, in Spanish, “It’s getting late.”  Or early more like.  “Don’t you think you’ve lost enough?”  Having expected touchiness he was surprised when the man, having blinked for a few moments at the Spanish rose from his place, swaying with drink, and began taking an unsteady leave of the other men at the table.  He must have been wanting a reason to leave, probably suspecting he was being made a target, but unsure of the best way out.  Ayre saw the face of a man sitting opposite darken, but that could mean no more than that he was sorry to see tonight’s pigeon leaving so soon.  He could think of other explanations, but jumping to conclusions now would certainly do no good.

 

#

 

“It may have been just coincidence,” he said a couple of days later, sprawled casually in a chair in Montes’s rented rooms.  “Men from abroad are seen as easy prey.”

 

“It’s not a coincidence I like,” Montes replied.

 

“I believe that we should not be surprised,” the third man in the room said.  “We might have expected our enemies to take steps against us,” Don Pedro de Vargas was an important figure in Trinidad, one of the island’s leading legal advocates, and a different kind of man from Montes.  Although he had the polished gravity typical of educated Spaniards there was an underlying choler in Vargas which made it easy to believe that he had clashed savagely with the blunt-spoken Governor and borne deep malice from losing the contests.

 

“So what do you think their aim was?” Ayre said, still deliberately casual.  He was aware that this attitude would not please the formal Spaniards, but he had come to feel they regarded him as a necessary evil, certainly not a partner in the enterprise and he did not care for it at all.

 

“Perhaps just to make you lose too much to remain here, perhaps to work to your discredit, perhaps even the hope of disposal in a duel, if one of you were to make an open accusation of cheating.”

 

“I’d not have thought it of the Governor,” said Montes, “a cruel man, but an honourable one after his fashion.”

 

“You do him too much credit,” Vargas said with a decided sneer.

 

“It need not have been arranged by the governor personally or even with his knowledge.  There are plenty of others taking an interest, so the Colonel tells me.”

 

“I daresay,” Ayre said.  “It’s what I would expect.  There must be many angry at the prosecution.  Many who think that a British governor must be defended no matter what.”  He did not attempt to keep the bitterness from his voice.  “What do we do about it?”

 

“We warn all our supporters to be careful in future,” said Montes.

 

“Is that all that you intend,” Vargas exclaimed angrily.  “Are we to let this go unavenged?”

 

“If we wish to win our case, then yes,”  Montes said forcefully.  “This is England and we are strangers here.  What would you do?  Fight a duel and give our enemies an excuse to have you arrested?”

 

“I would have us act like men,” said Vargas, “Did we not chose to make ourselves subject to the British crown?  Are we now to be treated like slaves?”

 

“We are bringing this case so that we should not be so treated,” Montes argued.  “We are bringing this case so that the people of Trinidad may be treated as well as the people of Britain.  Come now, my friend.  There has been no harm done.  They tried to trap us and failed.  We have lost nothing, neither strength nor dignity.”

 

“These English,” Vargas said angrily.  “As well deal with a pit of snakes.”

 

Ayre stood up, it was evident that he was being discounted yet again and he was tired of it.  Tired of always being the man of no account.  “I’ll leave you to sort this out, I’m going to do some reading.”

 

“Reading?” Montes queried.

 

“Yes.  I think it’s time I caught up on the pamphlet war.”

 

#

 

“I’ve been reading some of the writings about our case,” Ayre said to Fullarton.  The colonel was still issuing punctilious invitations on a semi-regular basis, possibly to assure himself that his witness had not slipped off back to Guiana. 

 

“Did you find them convincing?” there again was the intensity of focus, the look of a man who cared deeply about his cause.

 

“I found them inaccurate.  I know maturity comes faster out there, but I’ll swear the girl was not so young as ten.”

 

“A detail.  We need the public sympathy.”

 

“And that’s worth lying for?”

 

“Do you believe we are the only ones who use such tactics?”  Fullarton asked fiercely.  “If you have read the papers put out by our opponents –”. 

 

“I have read some of them.  May as well know what one is facing.  Apparently I and my fellow witnesses are ‘despicable wretches without property or character, raked from the worst classes of the colony’.  And that was one of the politer descriptions.”

 

“Do you imagine what the response of men with the proud Spanish sense of honour would be to such words if they knew of them?”  Fullarton exclaimed.  “The worst of motives are attributed to Don Montes and Don Vargas.  As for the lies they tell concerning myself, I would be less than a man if my blood did not boil.  They claim I am driven by personal malice, that it was all because I wished to bring the governor down.”

 

“I’ve no wish to cause offence here, but why did you get involved?”

 

“Do you believe it too?” Ayre had intended no such suggestion, but Fullarton’s voice revealed a man deeply wounded by the accusations.  “I did not even know him, had never met the man before I came out to Trinidad, had only the slightest knowledge of his name.  No, I chose to be one of Trinidad’s commissioners only because it seemed to me that here was a thing which should be done, here were abuses which must be corrected, reforms that must be made.  And I chose to further the case, because if the governor commits such acts with impunity what chance is there of ever setting up just rule?  I do not know how men can make accusations that they must know to be so entirely false.”

 

“Quite easily, I daresay,” Ayre remarked dryly, but Fullarton swept on.  “If you have read our accounts you must know that the girl, Luisa, was not his only victim.  She survives, where others died and can give no testimony.  Have you used your time to read of that?  Even his supporters cannot deny it, merely claim the accused were wretches who deserved summary death.”

 

“Yes, I have read of those cases,” Ayre said slowly.  Men and one woman put to death without trial, a slave mutilated and dying of the mutilation….   The victims were no innocents, the Governor’s case was that strict measures had been necessary, Trinidad had been in a state approaching anarchy when he was installed.  Most likely true, and did skipping a few formalities matter so much?  He had never been a soft-hearted man, never been troubled by severity, only by injustice, and going through the legal motions hardly altered that.  But did it alter his reasons for coming here?  Not really.

 

“But my conscience is wholly clear,”  Fullarton had drawn himself up sternly.  “I know I acted for the right.”

 

“A conscience is cold company,” Ayre remarked.

 

“If you no longer intend to give testimony for us, captain, I would prefer to know it,”  Fullarton said coldly.

 

“I didn’t say that.  I will speak for you.”

 

“I hope that you are entirely sure of this.  We can accept no waverers.”

 

“I do not go back on my word, Colonel.”  He was a little taken aback by how quickly Fullarton’s manner had changed.  He might have been dismissing a tradesman.  He was there on sufferance only, and faint amusement rose.

 

“You have my testimony,” he said, “But I still believe you’ll lose.”

 

“We have right on our side,” said Fullarton.

 

“Right makes a poor ally, Colonel,” Ayre said drily.  “You would do better to have influence.”

 

“When I feel the need of advice then I will ask for it,” Fullarton said shortly.  “I am hardly an inexperienced man.”

 

Well, that had put him firmly in his place, Ayre reflected, after leaving Fullarton’s house.  His mouth twisted, unable to help the thought that Fullarton would not have been so dismissive of Archibald Kennedy of Ayreshire, scion of the same circles from which the colonel himself had sprung.  No, that man would have been assured by his family background of respect, even when undeserved.  But he was exiled from his own class now, and for the first time felt that bite. 

 

The streets if London stretched around him now: elegant and dirt-strewn, spacious and busy, full of life and yet isolating.  This was not his city, for he must remain the outsider permanently, playing his part for the sake of his neck.

 

Around a corner someone – a street performer most likely – began to sing ‘Drink to me only with thine eyes’ in a clear tenor voice, and Ayre grimaced, by some law of contrariness music had a habit of recalling Horatio to him.  He had once hoped to show Horatio London one day, but the opportunity had never come and never would now.  A secret could be a lonely thing at times.  But confidence would mean trust, and he was no longer such a fool.  Most friendship is frail, and most loving mere folly… he’d learned his lesson late but he’d learned well.

 

There were so many places in this city where he could have found a temporary retreat from life, but tonight he sought out none of them.  He went back to his own room instead, and took up one of his recently purchased books.  If he was to spend time in London, then he could make the most of it.  And he was beginning to learn that wars of words needed weapons like any others.

 

 

Six

 

“I wish it were not Ellenborough,” Fullarton said in concerned tones. 

 

“I know little of the man” said Ayre, “is he likely to favour the Governor?”

 

Fullarton gave him an irritated look, but answered the question anyway.

 

“Certain to do so.  The man is notorious for his bias, always in favour of government, and government officials.  A second Jeffries.”  Fullarton paused, uneasily.  “I do not say this lightly you understand.  I am no Radical, whatever my accusers say.  It pains me see servants of the Crown abandon their integrity.  But Ellenborough fails to remember he is a servant of the law.”

 

“So the trial judge is against us.  That’s bad.”

 

“There is still the jury,”  Fullarton said firmly.  “Say what you will, I believe there is no better system of justice than the English.”  But his voice rang hollow, and Ayre could not but see how haggard the man looked.

 

He refrained from any further remark, feeling sure that it would be unwelcome, but reflected that the outcome must mean a good deal to Fullarton.  Yet one would have thought that he stood to lose nothing, whatever the verdict.  Perhaps the matter had become bound up with his own prestige and sense of integrity, as the grand ideals with which he came to Trinidad had now reduced themselves to this one case.  Ayre’s expression tightened.  The reward of dreams!

 

“What of the counsel?”  he said, trying to keep things practical. 

 

“Garrow, our man is able, and genuinely convinced, which is no small matter.  But Dallas is a skilled man too.  He and Ellenborough – Edward Law he was then – were two of the defenders of Warren Hastings, you know.”  Fullarton sighed, then seemed to pull himself erect.  “There will be nothing today but counsels’ speeches.  There’s no point in your remaining.”

 

“I think I will though.”

 

“As you choose,” said Fullarton politely.  He was polite, no denying that.  A decent type really.  Ayre would never have described himself as a decent type, but they could still cause him a brief moment of wistfulness sometimes. 

 

In truth there was not very much to be seen in the hallways of the courts and he lingered chiefly out of a certain sense of morbid irony.  His own past had not led him to think highly of law courts, even if that experience had not been with the civil system.  It seemed appropriate that Justice was generally portrayed as blind.

 

It turned out he was not the only lingerer, however.  It was a peculiarity of King’s Bench trials that the accused did not have to be present in the courtroom and it did not take him long to catch sight of the tall, sallow man, dressed in black, who was pacing the halls of the courts with a small knot of other men about him.  Ayre had never before seen the former Governor in person, but he had seen enough woodcuts to recognise him now. 

 

“You see that?”  It was Montes, having come up beside Ayre.  “Those men with him are all civil officers of Trinidad.”

 

“I thought I recognised a couple of them.”

 

“How they can do it I do not understand.  Do they not care that he sanctioned torture?  They talk only of the order he brought, do not care about the evil means.  They say I must have acted out of malice.  Men, some of them, I have known for many years. Have liked and worked with, now my enemies.”

 

Ayre could have said he had foreseen it, but he did not.  “The pamphlets claim the islanders have raised £4,000 towards his defence.”  He watched the black clad figure thoughtfully. “That he did some ill deeds does not mean that he has brought good also to the island, I suppose.”

 

“That he has done some good deeds does not nullify the crimes,” Montes said, and his voice held real pain.

 

Ayre continued to watch.  He did not look a monster, this former governor.  But no doubt he was not, not as Jack Simpson had been.  More like Massaredo, who ordered cruelty with indifference, without taking pleasure in the pain but without thought for it either.  Not for a mulatta girl, not for an unseen and unimportant prisoner.  If the Governor had been asked to torture a man he had sat and dined with he might have hesitated more.

 

The world would always be so and he could not change it.  The best he could hope for was to cease to be insignificant.

 

#

 

The place was impressive.  The trials before the King’s Bench took place in the London Guildhall, which was several hundred years old and looked it.  It was also somewhat unlike a usual law court, the judge’s bench no more than a high desk, but with raised boxes for the jurors and the witness giving evidence.  Watching lawyers in their gowns looked on, with above them carved figures in their niches adding an extra audience.

 

He had not anticipated feeling so chilled.  This was nothing like that court in Kingston, he was here as a minor witness only, yet he could almost feel the pain of the old wound drowning almost all else as a naval lieutenant who still had traces of youthful quixoticism with grim premeditation damned himself.  This was nothing like that, and yet the past was at his shoulder.  It was all he could do not to shiver.

 

He concentrated on looking solid and respectable, not too flashy, Fullarton had warned, with obvious engrained views about men who made money by colonial trade.  His clothes were plain, he felt a brief flash of regret for the dignity of uniform, then sneered inwardly at himself.  The time when he had believed the garb of a king’s officer to be a thing worth taking pride in had long since fled.  He would represent no corrupt authority here, they could take what they saw or leave it.

 

Garrow, their own man, was rising to begin the questioning.  Despite the unusual setting there was plenty of pomp on display here.  The lawyers in their gowns, the judge in scarlet robe and periwig – how silly those old fashioned long wigs looked – the great glittering coat of arms displayed behind the judge’s seat.  It would not do to look contemptuous.

 

The preliminaries of oath taking were gone through with appropriate solemnity.  Ayre suppressed an irreverent urge to laugh.

 

Having established his presence in Trinidad at the relevant time Garrow got down to business.

 

“Do you know a young woman by the name of Luisa Calderon?”

 

“Yes, I had met her several times at the house of Antonio Ruiz.”

 

“Did you see her after her arrest?”

 

“Yes, once.”

 

“Can you describe that occasion?”

 

“I had some business with Ruiz and I went to his house.  I saw some of the law officers of the island bring her there.”

 

“Did she seem in distress to you?”

 

“She was very lame, it looked as though walking pained her.  She looked,” Ayre said slowly, “as though she had suffered a great deal.”

 

“Had you heard the torture to which she was put described?”

 

“I have heard of it.  I did not witness it.”

 

“Had you heard of it being applied to other besides Luisa Calderon?”

 

“Yes, several persons.  It was quite customary.”

 

“I do not believe that is a proper question,” Ellenborough interposed.

 

“I will not insist on it,” Garrow said smoothly.  “Would you say that the girl had been much altered by her experiences?”

 

“Very much altered, yes.”

 

“Did you see the girl at all during her period of confinement?”

 

“I saw the place where she was confined once.”

 

“Will you describe that occasion?”

 

“I had met Ruiz in the street.  I wished to talk to him, he said I could accompany him back to his house, if I would wait whilst he discharged a brief errand.  It seemed he needed to speak to one of the alguazils, one of the law officials of the island.  The man was in the room where Luisa Calderon was confined.”

 

“What was his purpose there?”

 

“I do not know.”

 

“What did you observe of the room?”

 

“Well, I only saw the inside briefly, not feeling inclined to linger.”  Ayre stopped himself from shifting uneasily on the stand.  “There was a sloping ceiling, high in the centre, very low at the sides.”

 

“Where was the girl?”

 

“At the side of the room.”

 

“Was she in irons?”

 

“I think so.”

 

“What form did they take?”

 

“I didn’t see.”

 

“Could she sit up?”

 

“I don’t think so.”  It had been a humid, stinking place that chamber.  Too easy to remember too much.

 

“No doubt you, as an Englishman, had a strong response to the employment of the principle of torture that has always been regarded with great abhorrence in this country?”

 

“I do not permit this question!” the judge snapped.

 

“I withdraw it,” Garrow replied at once, somewhat to Ayre’s relief.  There were no other questions for him.

 

#

 

The court appearance had been somewhat anticlimactic, but that was not the cause of the disturbance in Ayre’s mind. He was not prepared to go back to his room yet, instead he looked round for somewhere to have a drink, both for the alcohol and the chance of talk.  Somewhere not too far from the court, somewhere where he might overhear some views.

 

Luck was with him.  The establishment he found held two scarlet coated army officers engaged in one of those ponderous discussions that hold no real heat on either side. 

 

“I don’t know why all the fuss about a little dago strumpet,” one was saying.  “Picketing has been used to punish the other ranks for long enough.”

 

“They don’t use it now, or hardly at all,” the other argued.  “Too many useful men lamed or ruptured.  Fifteen minutes on the picket could ruin a soldier for life.”

 

“Don’t matter if she was ruined, does it?”

 

“It’s the principle.  We don’t flog men to make them admit to something.  We do it as a punishment.”

 

“As a punishment for theft it’s not so bad.  She’d tried that trick here she’d have been hanged or sent to Botany Bay.”

 

“Or if she’d been a man she might have ended up in the army for us to deal with,” the second man said, and they both chuckled.  “But it wasn’t a punishment was it?  Courts shouldn’t go punishing someone before the trial.”

 

“Not in this country,” the first man agreed.  “But you can’t treat dagos the same, they’d just think you soft.  And why all the fuss?”

 

“It’s politics.”

 

“How’s that?”

 

“Well,” said the second man, who seemed better informed than Ayre would have thought, “At first they wanted settlers who hated the revolution.  Frenchmen with their slaves.  High Tories.  That sort.  But now they think revolution in the Spanish colonies might help us, so they want a different sort, Whig types and Abolitionists.  That’s why they sent Fullarton out, he was a Whig member.  Don’t know what happened out there, but there must have been real trouble.”

 

“But I don’t see how this is going to help all that.”

 

“No, and I don’t reckon the government does either.  Fullarton got carried away, I reckon.  But there’s a new man out in Trinidad now, so it’s an old quarrel.  Fullarton’s still got friends, that’s why it’s gone so far.”

 

Nothing really new here, but Ayre sighed.  Always the same wasn’t it?  Not right and wrong that counted, but who you knew and what you could do, and why was he still such a fool as to mind?  He needed another drink.

 

“I hope you will excuse my introducing myself.”  An unexpected voice at his elbow, he turned and was startled by naval uniform and a half-familiar red face atop it.  “My name is Barton.”

 

Ayre almost panicked.  Barton had been second lieutenant on the Indefatigable at the time that a small group of prisoners had been released from their Spanish captivity, it had in fact been his transfer to another ship that had led to one of them being unexpectedly promoted to Acting Lieutenant soon after.

 

“I was present in court today and saw your testimony,” Barton continued.  “As a man with a strong religious belief in the Abolitionist cause I have an interest in the progress of events in Trinidad, as well as a horror towards the practice of torture.  Would you be interested in dining with me tomorrow? I would certainly be interested in your views on the current situation.”

 

Ayre almost laughed with relief.  No recognition after all.  It was all he could do to accept calmly.  To refuse would be safer of course, but he had never cared that much for safety.

 

But tonight he intended to get drunk.

 

 

Seven

 

“I will briefly state to you the particulars of the situation of this unhappy creature during the time that she was thus exposed to this exercise of cruelty.”  Some enterprising individual had lost no time in printing off copies of Garrow’s opening speech and distributing them  “While her body was supported by the great toe projected on a sharp piece of wood, the wrist of the hand on the opposite side was drawn up by a pulley, so that her whole weight was sustained by the pulley and the spike; and lest she should afford herself any relief by struggling in such a situation the other hand and foot that were not concerned in the dreadful operation were tied together behind her.”

 

There were times when an active imagination was quite a disadvantage.  It was too easy to feel the growing pain shooting through the foot, the agony in the suspended arm and shoulder, the slowly increasing cramping of the limbs….

 

“…this unhappy creature continued for fifty-three or fifty-four minutes in that dreadful stat.  The time was ascertained by a watch which the magistrate had before him, not from any fear that she might suffer too much, but because there was some notion of a supposed law, that the torture could not be inflicted for more than an hour…her confession not being deemed satisfactory in twenty-four hours the torture was again applied…”

 

“She fainted twice,”  Rafael Chandos, who had been present at the second torture had said.  And this case was not the isolated whim of a single sadist, but a common practice applied to many others.  An ordinary piece of torture, a routine day of Trinidad justice.

 

He had known the details before of course.  But there was a difference between knowing a thing and allowing yourself to feel it.

 

He should never have got involved with this business!  He would do no good, it was as he had said to Montes, some men are born crusaders and others bring nothing but hindrance to any cause. 

 

#

 

The dinner at Barton’s was tolerable.  The party was small – Barton’s wife, an unmarried sister and another couple.  For Evangelicals they weren’t too bad.  Ayre profoundly distrusted the type.  Opposition to slavery was all well and good, but they were also prone to oppose plays, wine and many other things that made life worth living and many were profoundly reactionary in all things other than abolitionism

 

Their interest in Trinidad, and in South America, was not too hard to deal with either.  It was true that Ayre found it difficult to answer their questions about how abolition of slave labour was likely to affect the British colonies, but he could talk intelligently about the opportunities for trade and knew enough about the potential for political unrest in South America to at least give some satisfaction to their curiosity.  He was mildly amused to see that they were plainly torn, the conservative in his hosts abhorring anything that smacked of revolution, whilst their joint hatred of slavery and the Popish Spanish empire contradicted that. 

 

Ayre’s own view was cynical, if Spain’s colonies revolted there would be massacres.  Ideals were no substitute for strength.  But there seemed no point in saying that.

 

Towards the end of the meal he felt confident enough to invite Barton to speak of his career.  When the name Indefatigable came up he was ready. 

 

“I once met a man who had served on that ship.  One Hornblower.  I believe he is a captain now.”

 

“So he is,” Barton said, “and something of a scrub, I fear.  But I should not speak ill of a friend of yours.”

 

“I did not say he was a friend.  You may speak freely.”

 

The careful politeness Barton had shown in inviting him had long since worn thin, now he was a rough edged, although by no means unpleasant, seaman.

 

“A sad scrub.  Shows off his expensive cabin decorations, and keeps his poor wife short.  She is always shabby when they dine, her straits are known to other wives –” here Mrs Barton nodded vigorously “ – but it’s everything of the best on shipboard, food, wine, luxuries.  A clever officer, I don’t deny that, earned I’m sure, for all they say – well never mind.  But a scrub despite that.”

 

Ayre asked no more, feeling an abrupt rush of sympathy for a woman he had never met. A wife.  No surprise there, there was almost bound to be a wife one day. A wife kept short, whilst her husband flaunted his expensive cabin   Horatio had little natural taste for ostentation or luxury and barely seemed to notice what he ate.  But he loathed that men should think him poor, had always dreaded being despised for it by foremast Jacks and officers alike.

 

Oh, Horatio, you fool.  I could have told you that such tricks never answer.  You can’t fool the men forever, and whilst they may take pride in your fine cabin you’ll win more admiration by sheer skill.  A man of your talent has no need to dazzle with lavish expense…

 

And for the officers, you’d have done better to make a point of your Spartan cabin tastes and buy your wife expensive gowns.  If your fellows don’t notice she’s kept short, their wives will!  The Aristocrats will think you a silly provincial and men like Barton will think you a scrub. 

 

And they will both be right.

 

Perhaps the woman did not mind.  Perhaps she had even encouraged him to spend all on his ship and nothing on herself.  She might bear that gladly if she loved him.  And surely she did, Horatio drew love so easily – and so blindly! 

 

But surely he could not love her, or how could he bear to accept such an offer?  If I had ever found a woman to share love with, then I would have poured all my fortunes in her lap and been content with nothing less, for surely love is giving…

 

And it’s not so small a fortune now… I could give diamonds.  But how can love be if one cannot trust…

 

He drained his glass and concentrated on what Barton was saying about the importance of leading by example.

 

#

 

The trial dragged on.  Montes gave evidence that the torture had not been used in Trinidad before the British invasion, a point accepted by the prosecution. Vargas and others gave testimony on the subject of the Spanish law code that had prevailed in the island, and whether the law books of Old Spain allowed the torture.  Fullarton, growing greyer by the day, commented reluctantly that the trial was likely to turn on the niceties of interpretation of the law. 

 

Ayre felt thoroughly useless and berated himself again for ever having become involved.  He could not believe that his own contribution was likely to make much difference either way.  He had long since completed both his own official business and his unofficial, which involved the sale of a number of flawed but still valuable diamond stones removed unofficially from the mines of Guiana.  He had completed a couple of private commissions as well, for he had overcome his slight irritation over the Websters’ inevitable self-satisfaction at his change of mind enough to visit them both before his departure – unavoidable in some degree in any case, given his business relationship with Robert Webster, but he had made of it a social call as well as a business one.  Whilst there the remnants of a young man who had loved to give had arose unbidden, and he had found himself asking if there was anything they would like from London.  Webster had insisted that he would offer payment, but he would enjoy the chance to bring some pleasure.  That at least had lifted his spirits briefly. 

 

He respected Webster for honesty.  He could not quarrel with the man’s stand on any principle.  But principle and survival: what did those two things have to do with one another? And since survival was the only thing he had ever had any talent for, whether he desired it or not, he might as well stick to it.

 

Still that was an argument that carried increasingly less conviction, even as he called himself a fool for coming to London.  Because survival needed a purpose, and to what end did he go on?

 

What did he want?  That was a question that had to be faced.  What do you want, Kenneth Ayre that was Archibald Kennedy?  What do you want out of life?

 

Nothing that is possible, in this life or any that can be hereafter.

 

He wanted dark eyes, and that rare, shy smile.  He wanted friendship and love and sharing.  He wanted the life he had once believed could exist, service to take pride in, those clean things Horatio had chosen to call Honour.

 

So many of the old words had a filthy taste now.  What is Honour but a word for vainglory, what is Duty but an excuse for ambition?

 

Pellew had been free with such words, although seldom to him.  Where was his honour in Kingston?  That betrayal would have been hard, if there had been room in his pain for anyone but Horatio.

 

You cannot have the things you had, still less the things you dreamed of.  What, then would you have?

 

To be no man’s victim, not ever again.  To be no man’s creature, no man’s fool.  Those were the things he had sworn, when he stood on a strange dock with only his returning health and the skills he had learned. And had known he could find a cliff to walk off, or he could face his losses and survive.

 

To have significance, that had been the aim that drove him.  To be a man whom others could not discount.  And how could he do that, except by money?  Men listen to riches.  But he had not nearly enough yet, not enough for London.

 

But is that all?  What you will do with your significance if you get it?  Hug it to yourself, and tell it over like gold?

 

He’d been determined not to care again.  But when had he ever been good at fulfilling his aims?

 

#

 

He woke struggling and gasping, weak limbs attempting to fight off horrors.  Someone was clutching at him, and he struggled desperately until the voice penetrated his terrors.

 

“It’s all right, Archie, it’s all right.  It’s just a dream.  Ssshh.  Just a bad dream.  It’s all right.”

 

Shaking he let himself relax, sinking into the gentle embrace.  “I was alone,” his own voice mumbled before he could check it.  “It’s been so long.”

 

“It’s over now, Archie, it’s over.  I’m here.  You won’t ever be alone again.

 

He knew the promise was hollow, that no-one could be sure of holding to such words.  But he let himself relax into it anyway, comforted by the caring beneath the words….

 

“It’s an officer’s duty to care for his men.”  Captain Hornblower, standing stern upon the quarter-deck, was brisk.  “And to preserve the lives of as many as possible.”

 

“By whatever means are to hand,” he replied, keeping his own voice steady.  He wasn’t a shattered boy any more.

 

“Of course.”

 

“And they, in return, should support and preserve that officer by any means in their power. A captain’s job is to make men die for him, isn’t it?”

 

This captain had turned from him without answering, but he had seen already there was another man by the rail, gazing out over the sea as he had done so often on Justinian.  He walked over, unsurprised.  There was a time when he had not felt kindly to this one’s memory, but after all they were two of a kind.

 

“Was it worth it, Clayton?  Worth dying for?”

 

“You tell me.”

 

“Do I even remember?  He looked out from the frigate’s deck across the bright Caribbean sea.  “We died by naval laws.  But out here I make my own.”

 

 

Eight

 

“What will happen to the girl,” Ayre asked, partly to ease the tension of waiting for the verdict, and partly because he wanted to know.  His attempts to reach some kind of terms with himself had caused him somehow to stumble across the realisation that he had given remarkably little thought to the girl.  To Luisa Calderon, chosen as the case most likely to succeed in court (and perhaps also as one who was willing to speak out?).  His knowledge of her was so scanty.  What had her motives been, for taking part?  What did she hope for now?

 

“She will be taken care of,” Montes said briefly.  “We could not do otherwise.”

 

Interference by him would look pretty silly at this stage, Ayre knew.  Besides, he rather thought Montes could be trusted.  A pretty bunch they’d look, if they abandoned the girl now.  Yet he felt a certain regret that it had not occurred to him to think of her before.

 

He was not in fact allowing himself to feel much suspense at the outcome.  Tilting at windmills was only bearable if one did not expect them to fall.

 

The final summing up had been made, Ellenborough directing the jury that if they found torture sanctioned by the laws which applied to Trinidad, however long unused (and some of the books produced had been old indeed) they must give a special verdict that the acts committed had been without criminality.  There was little doubt what the judge wanted.

 

Even if the case was won, what would they have achieved?  One man convicted.  Justice for Luisa Calderon and for all those nameless others…. On second thoughts, perhaps that did matter.  He would have thought so once. 

 

To have no belief was bleak, but safe.  To have a belief unnatural to oneself enkindled only to be destroyed once more… ah, it was foolish to be bitter.  No harm had been meant.  Not by him.

 

He had always had that strain of weakness, that was the devil of it.  The weakness he couldn’t seem to eradicate, no matter how long or hard he fought.  The thing that had led him to fail to face Simpson, fail in the prisons, fail on Renown.  The thing that kept him chained to the past now when it was utterly without reason to mind one brilliant man’s disregard.  He could say at least that he had done no harm this time.  What else was there to say?

 

It did not surprise him that the jury duly brought in a special verdict.  The governor was discharged.

 

#

 

They had migrated to Fullarton’s house, all of them in the sullen depression which comes from losing.  Montes and Vargas talked in Spanish.  Fullarton seemed frailer in the space of a few hours.  Ayre wondered.  He knew more about Fullarton now.  The man had fought for years and failed to impeach Warren Hastings for corruption in India, had lost his parliamentary seat and place in Scottish politics for refusing to kowtow to the Dundas cabal.  He must have known that believing in one’s cause was no guarantee of victory before this.  Perhaps he had seen this as a last chance for idealism, or perhaps a lifetime of defeats had simply got too much.

 

“Men listened to you,” he said aloud, in an attempt to pierce the man’s unhappiness.  “You may not have won, but you made your voice heard.”  He did not think the words penetrated.  “What happened in Trinidad is now known in London, not to a few but to many.”  But it had still gone unpunished. 

 

Abandoning attempts to cheer Fullarton he walked to the far end of the room, and stood looking out of one of the windows to where London went on its way, unmoved and unchanged.   A man came up behind him, and he looked around long enough to see that it was Vargas.

 

“I do not think,” Vargas said to him, “that Don Montes ever believed that we could lose until now.”

 

“When he came to me in Georgetown,” Ayre recalled, “he was insistent that even if we lost something worthwhile would still have been achieved.  The truth would have been spoken, such practices would have been fought against.”  He smiled, cynically.  “Easy to say that before you have felt defeat.”

 

“He convinced you?”

 

“No.  I didn’t agree for those reasons.  And I never thought that we could win.  No, I wanted to tweak their tails.  The men who have the power, the ones who cause such things, and the ones that defend them.  I didn’t suppose we could defeat them, I just wanted to make them sting a little.”

 

 And to prove to himself that they had not broken him.  That he still had the courage to fight, despite Kingston.  They had won there, but he had given no parole.  He had done this for his own pride, nothing more.

 

“And you?” he asked.  “They said you hated him.”

 

“I wanted to see him humbled, and I have.  I forced him to defend himself before the law.  The case has put him through an ordeal he will not forget.  It is not the best outcome, but it is better than nothing at all.”

 

Yes, better than nothing,” Ayre echoed.  He thought back to Montes in Georgetown, and how he had insisted that even a losing case might prevent such things from being done in Trinidad in future.  Perhaps they had achieved that much.

 

He had come into this for the sake of his own pride, but perhaps he was coming out again with something more.

 

Montes had said that the rewards of choosing right might not be tangible.  That he was having difficulty believing the words now did not make them the less true.

 

“Perhaps stands do need to be made,” he said.  “ ‘The only thing needed for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.’   A man called Edmund Burke wrote that, I read it lately.”

 

“Was there a reason for the reading?”

 

“I read much literature in my younger days, but during this time I had come to feel the need to read some thinkers.  Philosophers, moralists, call them what you will.  I needed to learn how to think.  Not the way a seaman or a trader needs to think, but the way a man needs to think to form his ideas, understand how to argue right and wrong. I needed to order my mind, to be able to make reply to those who made arguments of expediency.”  He perceived he had lost Vargas’s interest, but said anyway.  “Much of what I read was either above my head or seemed to me plain nonsense, but there was much that was helpful also.”

 

He looked back at the two idealists, grieving for their defeat, knew there was a crux here.  He could choose to forget all that he had seen and read and learned in London, and go back to pursuing mere survival, or he could try to find another way.   A way which would be wholly his own, he was no pure believer, nor wished to be.  But could a cynic find the wish to fight for those intangible rewards?

 

#

 

Being at sea again brought a fierce rush of joy that surprised him with its strength, for it did not seem to belong to his present self but to an earlier one he had thought long since buried.  Yet on the deck of his ship he felt vitally alive once more, and wondered if more of Archie Kennedy had survived that mess in Kingston than he had once believed. 

 

Being at sea freshened the mind, and reaching conclusions seemed suddenly so much simpler.

 

Even a defeat could achieve things worthwhile, that was one conclusion.  They might have banished torture from Trinidad after all.  And – thinking on those lines – was his time on Renown quite the messy failure he had always thought it?  Might not still more men have died if Sawyer had remained in unchallenged command?  If men had lived who might otherwise have died, that would be something for the shade of Lt Kennedy to have some pride in.

 

And here was another thought: that the important thing in such fights as these was to choose the man one wished to be.  Did he wish to be a man complicit in injustice, one who looked the other way like Keene or Eccleston?

 

His memory brought forth a picture, and for the first time in many years a fond smile came to his lips, as he recalled a young midshipman vibrating with outrage, a boy who thought it worth dying to stand against injustice.  Then the same boy, older now but with the same inborn integrity as he chose to return to confinement when he might have gone free with reward.

 

He had looked at that boy then, and known that he was not like that, he would never be like that, that shining, natural belief would never be his.  He was not like that, but he could try to live by that boy’s standards.  And in that time it had seemed the best of ambitions.

 

That those same values had been forgotten by Lt Hornblower as he struggled to mould himself to the Navy’s template did not, after all make them of no worth.  And would not abandoning them forever be to hand one more victory to that foul tribunal? 

 

He had always hated the absoluteness of their triumph.  Hated the knowledge they had broken his frail attempt to fight for something outside himself, forced him to collude in their vile scapegoat hunt as the only way to save Horatio’s life.  For that he would always hate them, and all they represented.  He had gone to London from hatred, but if he could do that much perhaps he could do other things from principle?

 

He would never be the man Horatio might have been, the crusader aflame with pure integrity and natural belief.  But he could try for his own standards, and perhaps find the capacity within himself for something more than mere survival. 

 

It might be enough.

 

He could think of Horatio with more peace now.  Think of all he had gained from knowing him.  For without Horatio what would he be?  Dead by his own hand, or lost to selfish bitterness.  For Horatio he had learned to love, and from Horatio he had learned to consider things beyond himself.  The lesson was no less needed for the pain it had ultimately cost.

 

“Yes,” he said into the brisk flowing breeze, “yes, Clayton, he was worth it.”  No matter what had followed the act had been worthwhile.

 

For now – he felt his heart lift surprisingly.  For now he could go back to Georgetown and see if Webster still wanted a partnership.  For now he had the life of a captain, and the knowledge he was answerable to no corrupt authority.  For now, he felt himself able to look forward for the first time in many years.

 

There was more to life than surviving, and he believed now he could find it.

 

 

Epilogue

 

1815

 

The papers from London were very full.  Ayre read them with an interest only partly diluted by cynicism at the triumphalist trumpetings.  That was no surprise, and for all his disillusionment he was not displeased.  After all, he would not have wanted to see Bonaparte victorious.

 

There were some sombre notes however, some memorials to the dead.  To Ayre one name stood out, and he read the fulsome eulogies with a slight grimace.  General Sir Thomas Picton, killed valiantly in action.  A hero of the battle, lauded on all sides.

 

Who remembered now that he had once had a mulatta girl tortured?

 

Who remembered Fullarton, the idealist?  When Fullarton died, worn out, soon after the trial, the world hardly noticed. 

 

Heroes were what the world wanted, not men who fought for what they believed and lost.

 

He could never have been a hero.

 

At that moment he was glad.  Heroics so often rang hollow.

 

He smiled to himself, closed the paper on the ex-governor’s obituary, and went out into the sunlight.

 

 

 

                                             **The End**

 

 

 

Author’s Endnotes: I have taken major chronological liberties in this story whilst trying to remain true to the actual sequence of events.  In reality the torture of Luisa Calderon took place in 1801, investigations began in 1803 and the first trial was held in 1806.  Picton was convicted but promptly applied for a new trial, this was granted and ended with a special verdict of acquittal in 1808. 

 

With the obvious exception of ‘Kenneth Ayre’ all the participants in the trial are historical, although I found it impossible to discover anything else about Montes and Vargas and so their characters as portrayed here are my own invention.  The involvement of Ruiz in dubious trading is also fiction.

 

Garrow’s opening speech in the trial is quoted verbatim.  I do not know what became of Luisa Calderon after the case ended.

 

 

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