Ram; being the tale of one Ramillies Anstruther, 1704-55 .. (36 page)

"I—I'm hurt!" he gasped. He swajed, tripped over the body and went down. "Help! I die!" he choked, both hands now at his jugular to hold in his life's blood.

Tapley came around the table, but Ram was quicker. "No!" And when, after a gurgling plea from the floor, Tapley tried to dodge him: "Move, and ye answer to me. Sir Henry."

Swearing, Holton rounded the table in turn. "You can't let him bleed to death!"

Ram caught his arm and swung him back. "Major, ring that bell. The watch must be called."

"But, but—!" Holton gaped, but went to the bell rope.

Ecod, Ram thought, the poor little sparrow's slain the hawk!

CHAPTER 12 NEWGATE,

1730-31

The double tragedy at "Nabob" Anstruther's house brought its owner dubious fame, though the peer and the major remained silent as to. how Ram had refused to let them help the dying cheat. Tapley obtained leave and left London hurriedly. And if there was wonder why Lady Martham had closed her house in midseason and was said to be traveling abroad, how could the town know of the frantic accusation of a man the instant before he was murdered?

Annie missed her mentor, but Isabella's main work had been done, and already wealthy Mrs. Morgan's drawing room was crowded.

Ram was glad to be rid of the leeches. They'd served their turn, though they'd bled him heavily. Now he paid closer court to Wade, still losing enough to keep his favor. Yes, His Majesty considered "bestowing" Napier's on Captain Anstruther who would, of course, compensate the heirs and also—well, even a king can use gold.

One day at the general's. Ram was taking wine from a footman when his arm was gripped roughly.

"So, ye think the Company's forgot ye!" It was Rale, his eyes savage, his face a mass of blue veins and his nose bulbous.

Ram shook him off. " 'Pon honor, Major, your manners haven't improved since we met," he drawled. "Let me see. Ah, yes, you were running demnably fast with two Marathas after you when I came up and called 'em off. You gave me no thanks for saving your life."

"Ye whoreson, I've laid traitor charges that'll hang ye!"

Already men were listening. Ram knew that this must be a test. If he let this fool bully him, his ruin was sure.

"I'm no traitor," he said coldly. "First I served the Austrians, then a native leader. As for the Panmali affair, I told you then, had I known H.E.I.C. troops were there, I'd never have attacked, though it meant disobeying Raja Bajaji. I hear he's now a loyal Company ally."

"Ye suborned Company servants!" Rale accused. But then he blundered; instead of bringing up Fred Morgan and McNeill, he spoke of Jakes.

"A ship's deserter!" Ram scoffed. "Bajaji engaged him without my knowledge or consent. I had the pleasure of killing him myself."

"Damn you, I'll crush ye!"

"You wear a sword. If one of my friends may call upon you . . . ?"

Rale changed color. "I—I don't fight with traitors!"

"Damme, I'll have no gamecocking here!" It was Wade. "I order you to let this matter rest."

"Sir, the gentleman makes accusations," Ram explained. "We've met before, in India. The last time somewhat embarrassed him. What I did then was in the way of duty. I've an urge to travel to France, beyond English dueling restrictions. Should he care to join me, I'm sure we can reach a conclusion." He turned to Rale. "You agree, sir?"

The major glanced around and took small comfort from the onlookers' expressions. " 'Tis illegal to duel. The Company will settle this."

"Plague take my liver, a coward!" a half-pay captain growled. "In my old regiment we'd ha' drummed him out."

"Indoostan soldiers!" another veteran shrugged. "Fat living and little fighting softens their guts."

"Captain Anstruther, a glass of wine with ye," Wade invited. "Right or wrong, I'd not be in his shoes. Damme, my doors are closed to him. Outfaced by a lad half his age! Gentlemen, suppose we resume our game?"

But when next Ram visited the general, his greeting was frigid. Puzzled, he lingered until all others had gone for word with his host, who said at once: "Sir, His Majesty decided late Napier's can't be disposed of." He paced the room. "Certain advisers, closer to his ear than I, have been at him. And I hear at Court a gentleman lately back from Hindustan is becoming known unfavorably about the town. Two men died in his house, and 'tis said he even provided the

fatal sword. So, 'tis my duty to request you no longer call upon me."

It was numbing. The Company! Curse its fat, money-mad directors, sitting on their arses here in London, influencing the King himself.

He returned home in a ferment. His mood was not improved when Joseph handed him a note from Annie: "Fred is come. Call on us. But he is not your friend."

He did call and was shocked. Drink and heavy food had taken their toll of Fred. Like Rale, he'd grown gross and now was half drunk. Annie, standing behind him, looked at Ram imploringly.

"Glad t'see ye again, man," Fred grudged. "Wales is dreadful cold and small building can I do now. Well, I must needs thank ye for finding my wife friends. Do ye thirst? I'm parched. Come, drink."

"Tell me about the mansion," Ram invited. "You'll have it built by spring?"

Fred's bloodshot eyes lighted. "Aye. I'll be a squire, with none daring to sneer at the poor attorney's son."

Annie's grimace was revealing. Did the poor fool think to cage a bird of her plumage in bleak Welsh hills? "You'll find the town quite diverting, Fred," he said. "Annie's most sought after."

"I want no popinjays spending my money! A few boon friends and a bottle's all I want till I'm back to building. Drink up."

For the next month Ram was twisted by indecision, his only course apparently to return to Dalesview. Will had written that lead veins had been found nearby, that a fortune waited if they could be mined. If Ram would outlay a thousand or so, ground could be leased, miners hired, pit props cut and roads made to bring out the ore. Cattle and horse sales were poor. Yes, Ram thought, I'd better become a miner.

Meanwhile, though Wade's house was barred to him, other houses were not, and people flocked to his own. He gamed more recklessly. Sometimes he won—once 1200 guineas—but more often he lost.

Then one evening Young Joe brought him a note in a familiar hand. "Fred's gone back to Wales," it said. "Come late here. Urgent."

He had not seen either of them for weeks. This was no assignation or she'd have named Covent Garden. She probably needed aid. Outside, the fog had closed in. He'd take a chair and not keep Williams and Young Joe freezing in the coach.

He rang for Joseph. "Have Parker call a chair. I'll be back late."

He buckled on his sword. Since his dress one had shattered on poor Sparrow's button, he had worn one of the finest steel. And tonight there could be footpads. Soon he was carried eastward along Piccadilly by two Irish chairmen. He shivered as the fog caught his throat. He'd rather go through three monsoons than this.

It grew so thick his bearers halted and raised the lid to ask if he'd engage a linkboy. He agreed and at once a torch arrived alongside, showing a cherubic face. He smiled, aware it was a ramp, that the lad had been following and was probably the son of one of the men.

Deciding that, with Fred gone, he'd best not be seen entering Annie's house so late, he halted the chair in the short street leading from High Holbom into Red Lion Square. The amount he gave brought chorused thanks. "God be wi' ye, sorr!" the boy's treble came after him as he turned eastward. Only the faint yellow glow of an occasional doorway lantern pierced the pall. He turned north. The house stood where Princeton Street gave onto the square.

Mounting the steps, he rapped with his cane.

"That's him!" There followed the rush of feet.

Nerves tightening, he made out figures crowding behind him. He rapped once more. Dropping his cane, he drew his sword. There came a drag on his cloak as a blade ripped through it.

This was no time for heroics. "Help! Let me in!" He lunged at dim moving shapes.

"At 'im!" he heard, followed by a yelp as his point found flesh. But he felt a stab of pain as steel lanced his right thigh.

"Pox ye!" He shortened his sword. This time his thrust brought a scream. The falling body almost jerked the weapon from his grip. In trying to free it, he had to descend the steps. Another jerk and he had it out. Then a smash on his head brought him to the ground.

"Finish 'im!" A voice came through his dizziness.

"The watch! Corblimey, let's 'op it!"

Pounding feet; some fleeing, others approaching. He pulled himself up by clinging to the steps' railing. He began to vomit.

"Wot's all this?" A lantern was thrust in his face. "Gord, 'ere's one all bloody." Another voice chimed in, " 'Ere's a dead 'un. Dead as an 'erring."

"Murder, hey?" the first speaker grunted. "Disarm the rogue." Ram's sword was wrenched from him.

"Knock door . . . Mrs. Morgan—!" God, he felt sick.

"A night in the round'ouse won't do 'im a bit of 'arm, so lug 'im along, Tom, you and Will bring the deceased too."

Too dazed to resist, Ram was half dragged, half carried for what seemed hours, until his captors hauled him up wooden steps and rapped on a great oaken door. It opened, revealing dim light within and letting fetid air gush out.

" 'Ere's one. Constable," the watch leader said. "Caught red-'anded, wiv 'is victim a bleeding corpse at 'is feet. Likely 'e's a dangerous rogue wiv a price on 'is 'ead."

"This way," a new voice ordered. "Let's have a look at him."

He was dragged into an anteroom, assorted staves, brownbills, muskets, handcuffs and greatcoats hanging from its walls. His right thigh ached damnably.

"Who are ye? Speak."

"I'm Captain Anstruther. I was waylaid outside Mrs, Morgan's house in Red Lion Square. Send someone there and another to my house in St. James's Square. But first a surgeon, I'm hurt."

"You're Capting Anstruther? Maybe. Who's the dead 'un?"

Ram shook his head. The room was spinning. "Surgeon . . . Pay well."

"In good time, but manacled first ye'll be. A man's dead and your sword's bloody. The Justice'll charge ye right and proper in the morning," The handcuffs locked and he was thrust through a doorway into a segment of the huge circular building. An iron band was snapped around his waist and its chain attached to the stone wall. Foul straw was toed toward him; then his captors left.

He sank onto the straw. When he tugged off his hat, blood trickled down his cheek. He felt his leg gingerly. The wound was through the great muscle on the outer side, level with his groin. Rents in his breeches proved the thrust had passed clean through. It still bled, but he was sure it wasn't dangerous.

Annie! Why hadn't her door opened? His head was clearing and he remembered that voice rasping: "That's him!" He'd been expected, recognized. By whom? Could Fred, suspecting his liaison with

Annie, have forged the note, as he'd forged the chit in Bankipur, to draw him into a trap? But, no, it was certainly in Annie's hand.

Chains rattled on his left. "Wot cheer, cully? Wot they nabbed yer for?" A dirt-streaked face stared down at him. The smell of its owner gagged him, but the voice held sympathy. "Gord, they didn't 'arf give yer a wallop. Ahw'd yer feel?"

"Sick from wounds. They've taken the wrong man. I was waylaid. I killed one, I think. Who're you and why are you here?"

The other grinned, showing rotten teeth. " 'Ilary Brahwn, that's me, and I'm the wrong cove too. Said I prigged a gent's ticker—me.' Nah, I arsk yer! 'Tis rare 'ow they trample the rights o' free-born Englishmen. But OF Tupper's easy. 'E won't commit nobody wivout witnesses to the felony. 'E's the Justice of St. Giles' Parish."

Having incautiously stretched his leg. Ram groaned.

"Wot's wrong?" Brown bent over him again,

"My leg—sword thrust." Ram wished he'd leave him alone.

" 'Ere, roll over; that's the ticket. Cor, pinked yer proper! Let's git yer breeks dahn an' 'ave a look. Wish I'd a kerchief or a bit o' shirt-tail, but I ain't got neither. 'Ow abaht you?"

To please the fellow. Ram unbuckled his sword belt and his empty scabbard and gingerly drew down his breeches, not without curses as the cloth pulled free of the wounds.

With surprisingly gentle hands. Brown bandaged the leg with a strip from Ram's own shirt-tail, then pulled up the breeches again. " 'Ow's that? Best git some sleep. Nothin' we can do till they tikes us up afore the beak. Gord, wot I'd give for a swig of 'ot geneva nah!" He crawled back to his place.

Ram closed his eyes. The rogue was right. If a surgeon wasn't coming, he'd better rest his leg. As for his scalp, the hair had stopped the bleeding, though his head ached monstrously. He dozed.

During the night he was vaguely aware of someone urinating against the wall near him, of the door being unlocked and a woman, spouting filth, being brought in and chained somewhere.

Only half awake, the jangling of his manacles made him imagine he was back in the Ahmedpur cell with Baja. God, his head ached!

"Now then, Captain, we ain't got all day. Up with yer." The red-faced constable was regarding him impatiently. Still barely under-

standing, he tried to gain his feet, but his now-numbed leg failed

him.

" 'E's 'urt," Brown contributed. " 'E's got an ole in 'is stump yer

could put yer finger fru. Sword frust, 'e said."

"Serves him right. Murderin' a gent in a public square! Now, Captain, up. His Worship will want to take a look at you."

With his help, Ram managed to stand. Memory flooded back. "Send for my butler. He'll bring a dozen gentlemen to identify me."

"All in good time, cocksbody. P'raps he can, but I'll lay you're a notorious bridle-cull, with a price on yer head." The constable unlocked the waistband, but not the manacles. "Come on, and you too. Brown. Aye, and you, Doll."

Leaning on Brown, Ram could limp and they emerged from their stinking quarters into the anteroom, into which tipstaves were herding more captives from other parts of the roundhouse: two tattered beggars, a still-drunk seaman, a toothless hag who kept threatening to " 'Ave the lor on ye," and two immature street walkers.