Sergeant Verity and the Blood Royal Read online

He aimed low, at the chest rather than the head, knowing that it would offer a fuller target. Charley Temple's shape flashed briefly behind the further struts and then came into full view. Morant-Barham, in a long five seconds, followed steadily with his aim and then, just as steadily, brought an even pressure to bear on the trigger. The rifle barked, deafening as a cannon at such range, and left Joey's ears singing with the shock. But Charley Temple had thrown up his arms in a pantomine gesture of despair and was now at the feet of his hunters. No one, in all the uproar, would question that a lucky shot from one of the pursuers had brought him down. Joey Barham kept very still among the trees, not even attempting to reload the rifle for his own defence. Then his heart seemed to stop and his throat to tighten as he heard someone on the bridge say with mingled impatience and amusement: 'Why, the cunning old rat ain't even dead yet!'

  There was no more that Joey could do, but Charley Temple was in safe hands. While he shrilly and blasphemously protested his innocence, his body arching convulsively with a fear that was greater than pain, half a dozen men had hoisted him level with the iron parapet of the bridge. Morant-Barham looked for a rope round the scraggy neck as they lodged Temple above the swirling waters of the Potomac, but there was none. With a great communal howl they heaved him over, the body falling spread-eagled through the air while a stutter of small-arms fire opened on the moving target.

  Joey Barham slung his rifle on his back and prepared to move gently away through the woods. Temple had hit one of the stone piers and was lying there motionlessly. Then, to Joey's surprise, the old thief raised his head, shook it, and began to crawl awkwardly like a broken insect. There was a yell from the men on the bridge, partly of hatred and partly of delight at finding that their vengeance could be further prolonged. Another patter of shots followed. The body on the stone pier jerked spasmodically under the impact of several bullets and then, at last, lay still.

  Almost at once, there was a stillness in the crowd and Joey Barham was able to hear the crunching tread of a regiment on the march, approaching the far bank. Charley Temple's assassins scattered wildly, running in every direction as the yellow oil light caught the first flash of blue uniforms. Since John Brown's attempt on the national armory at Harper's Ferry', a militia company had been kept permanently on the alert. Even the mounted brothel bullies and the mob which followed them had barely time to despatch Charley Temple. But they were keen to set an example to other traders and emancipationists alike. They made it time enough.

  A militia captain had halted his men on the far bank and was rapping out orders to various details. As the company broke up into smaller units, each with its allotted duty, Joey Morant-Barham turned away. He walked softly through the Maryland woods, climbing the obscure path by which he had come. His horse was still tethered to the trunk of a silver birch, not half a mile from the road which led across the narrow neck of Maryland and into Pennsylvania. His rendezvous with the Lieutenant, an hour later and five miles further on, was easily kept. The Pilentum stood by the roadside, its dark hood raised and its carriage-lamps flickering.

  The Lieutenant listened to Morant-Barham’s account of the tragedy at the Baltimore and Ohio bridge. Then the young officer whinnied with laughter at the extent of the old man's folly.

  'BY God, Joey! What a fellow will do for five thousand yellow boys! Ain't it justice, though, truly speaking?'

  'And the girl ?' asked Morant-Barham, unamused. 'What of her?'

  The Lieutenant rested a polished boot on the foot-board of the carriage and sighed.

  'Joey, Joey, there was never a word of a lie in it. When she was fifteen the cove that owned her left Richmond for Philadelphia. By a stroke of fortune the missioners never got to her and the young fool never took her liberty. Our Miss Jennifer chose a full belly before starving in freedom. For a year or more, the cove put her naked up chimneys to clean 'em. She worked for him and he pleasured her, until she fancied herself in love, Joey! Then he gave up the sweepin' concern and took her back south. Cured her of love by selling her to a bawdy-house. Ain't remarkable she should look a bit surly, old fellow, is it?'

  'And the rest?' asked Morant-Barham. 'Is it bono?'

  The Lieutenant laughed.

  'Oblige me, Joey, by giving a fellow a little credit! When our Khan doxy was a sweep, she was in a state that might have been black or white, boy or girl. She was put up chimneys in the great buildings of Philadelphia and the small. She mayn't drawn builder's plans of the main rooms, but there ain't nothing she couldn't tell you about chimneys. Now, Joey, I know enough of ground plans. While you were galloping after us just now, Miss Jennifer drew a sketch in the dust of the one thing lacking.'

  'Oh yes?' said Morant-Barham nervously.

  'She has cause to remember it, Joey, from torn skin and raw joints. The stacks and flues of the United States Federal Mint.'

  Joey Barham whistled appreciatively.

  'And the locks? Vault doors and strongroom?'

  'Come now, Joey,' said the Lieutenant reasonably, 'a man must do something for himself. Where's the sport in it all otherwise?'

  'A million,' Morant-Barham said thoughtfully, 'a million in gold!'

  The Lieutenant frowned.

  'Hold hard, Joey! I ain't Charley Temple to be bought and sold cheap. More than two million but perhaps not three. And no one to know that it's been done.'

  Morant-Barham chortled and the Lieutenant turned to another topic.

  'Joey, old fellow, take Miss Mag and ride the horse with her a bit. I've a mind to put the tawny doxy on her back in the carriage. Curse Charley Temple, but these Newgate japes do leave a fellow feelin' frisky!'

  2

  Department of the Treasury Pennsylvania Avenue Washington District of Columbia

  18th of November 1859

  Captain Jefferson Oliphant, of the United States Treasury, presents his compliments to Inspector Henry Croaker, of the Private-Clothes Detail, Metropolitan Police, London. Captain Oliphant presumes, on the basis of their meeting two years ago, to solicit Mr Croaker's advice in a matter of some delicacy and confidentiality.

  Mr Croaker may have read, in the latest exchange of intelligence, of an unfortunate incident at Harper's Ferry, Virginia, where pro-slavery feeling was already roused by the attack of Captain John Brown and his conspirators on the national armory. Captain Oliphant refers to the subsequent murder by lynch law of a known thief and trader in slave-women, Charles Temple, alias Samuel Edge. Having stolen a young woman, Jennifer or Jenny Khan, from her master, Temple sold her across the state-line to a brothel trader in Maryland. Being watched secretly, he was seized upon his return, gravely wounded by a shot during the struggle, and thrown to his death from the Potomac railroad bridge. A company of militia arriving soon after put the mob to flight and recovered Temple's body from the stone pier of the bridge.

  Captain Oliphant has since had occasion to interview Major Eliot, the first officer to reach Temple's body. Though mortally injured by the fall and by loss of blood, Temple was still conscious and lived for several minutes longer. During this brief period, he swore repeatedly that he had been betrayed by the man for whom he had stolen the young woman. She was not bought for her physical beauty but for having in her head the plan of one of the great bank-vaults of the United States.

  Captain Oliphant cannot see how this could be the case. Yet Temple's dying words were emphatic and urgent. He was also in possession of five thousand dollars in gold coin, a sum far in excess of the price generally paid for a ‘fancy-girl' used for immoral purposes.

  Finally, Temple named the villain who had betrayed him and was to employ the girl's information. He was, in Temple's words, a disgraced British army officer, Lieutenant Vemey Dacre, late of the 19th Dragoon Guards.

  When Captain Oliphant had the pleasure of meeting Mr Croaker in London, during the autumn of 1857, Lieutenant Dacre's name was often mentioned. He was then credited as the intelligence of the great bullion robbery on the South Eastern Railway of London. Five hundredweigh
t of gold at twenty-two carat had disappeared while held under maximum security and had then not been accounted for.

  Though Temple's story of a plot against an unspecified bank-vault must be treated with caution, Mr Croaker will appreciate the concern of the United States Treasury if Lieutenant Dacre were at large in this country. At the same time, Captain Oliphant understood that the bullion crime had been brought home to Dacre by the pertinacity and .zeal of Mr Croaker himself. He further understood that Dacre had taken his own life by shooting himself, almost in the presence of the arresting officers, and that a coroner's inquest was held upon him.

  Captain Oliphant would be immeasurably obliged if Mr Croaker were able to confirm the view of the Metropolitan Police that Lieutenant Dacre died in 1837 and to state briefly the circumstances of his demise.

  In conclusion, Captain Oliphant offers to Inspector Croaker his best respects and begs to remain Mr Croaker's obedient servant.

  Inspector Henry Croaker

  Metropolitan Police 'A' Division

  Scotland Yard

  Whitehall Place

  London, W.

  England

  3

  Metropolitan Police 'A' Division Whitehall Police Office London, W.

  2nd January 1860

  Inspector Henry Croaker, of the Whitehall Police Office, presents his compliments to Captain Jefferson Oliphant and is in receipt of Captain Oliphant's communication of the 18th of November last.

  At the outset, Inspector Croaker must say how deeply he deplores the late incidents at Harper's Ferry, Virginia. Ever an enemy to social unrest in all its forms, Inspector Croaker views most strongly the wholesale evils which must result from conferring arbitrary freedom upon those whose status and education ill-equip them to receive it.

  In the matter of Lieutenant Vemey Maughan Dacre, late 19th Dragoon Guards, Mr Croaker is happy to assure Captain Oliphant that this officer cannot now be in the United States, having been certified dead by a coroner's inquest in 1857, upon Mr Croaker's own information. Mr Croaker must emphasize that Lieutenant Dacre is not, in law, a criminal, having no indictment or conviction against his name. However, Mr Croaker sees no injury to protocol in revealing those details of Lieutenant Dacre's death known to 'A' Division, Metropolitan Police.

  Strong evidence, implicating Lieutenant Dacre in the bullion robbery, had been amassed by the following month. Sergeant Albert Samson of the Private-Clothes Detail, under Mr Croaker's orders, confronted Lieutenant Dacre at the latter's rooms in Albemarle Street, London, W. Also present was Sergeant William Clarence Verity of the detail. This officer was not on duty, however, and therefore not to be credited with apprehension of the suspect.

  Sergeant Samson questioned Lieutenant Dacre and was then obliged to go down to the street and send for a constable to carry a message to Scotland Yard. During his absence a shot was heard. On returning to Lieutenant Dacre's room, he found the suspect sitting in his chair, still dressed in the same russet suiting and yellow waistcoat. He had evidently shot himself through the mouth with a Manton duelling pistol which then lay in his lap. The wound was extensive, at such close range, devastating the skull and causing severe general injuries. Of the manservant, Oughtram, there was no trace, though immediate search was made by way of an internal door in the room, leading below stairs. Oughtram eluded all pursuit by the constabulary authorities, who sought him as a witness to the tragedy. There was, of course, no evidence implicating him in the bullion theft.

  Air Croaker therefore takes the greatest satisfaction in assuring Captain Oliphant that Lieutenant Dacre died three years since in Albemarle Street. This has been legally established by a coroner’s inquest. In addition, Mr Croaker is prepared to add his own formal assurance of the fact to Captain Oliphant, upon the authority of his own constabulary rank and reputation.

  In conclusion, Mr Croaker remains, etc.

  Captain Jefferson Oliphant Department of the Treasury Pennsylvania Avenue Washington District of Columbia United States of America

  Captain Oliphant handed the letter across his desk to Sergeant Thomas Crowe, who stood plain-suited on the far side. The Captain folded his hands behind him and walked slowly to the tall sash window. He stared, without noticing the view, down the long tree-lined avenue towards the unfinished dome of the Capitol building at the far end. His eyes rested briefly on the litter of builders' scaffolding and blocks of stone. Then he turned back and took the sheet of paper which Crowe had finished reading. Captain Oliphant glanced at it again and then looked up at his subordinate with an audible sigh.

  'Right!' he said softly. 'I guess this tells us everything we need to know. Take Stevens. And take Hamilton. And go out there, and find Lieutenant Dacre!'

  Beyond the rippling surface of Plymouth Sound at full tide, placid as an inland lake, the waters of the English Channel glittered like copper tinsel in the dying summer day. The storm clouds, gunpowder grey, which had hung over the Western Approaches earlier in the afternoon, had passed overhead harmlessly and had now almost vanished beyond the Dartmoor slopes.

  Packed closely on Plymouth Hoe and on the high ground of the Citadel, a crown of men and women murmured as though in long expectation. Just out to sea, beyond the breakwater, the ships of the Channel Squadron lay at anchor in two lines. The wooden hulls, with their rows of square ports on the gun decks, their black shapes topped by acid-yellow and by the creamy-grey billows of their sails, were indistinguishable at this distance from the ships which had sailed with Nelson to Trafalgar, or with Lord Howe on the Glorious First of June. The setting sun was behind their sails, suffusing them with a reddish gold, concealing the short squat funnels which rose by the mainmast and indicated the new power of Her Majesty's fleet.

  The crowd was made up of grave-looking men in long-tailed coats and tall hats; women in broad crinolined silks and triple flounces, the patterned stripes running vertically down the dresses, since Paris had decreed that horizontal bands were now irrevocably out of fashion. There was a score of red-coated and gold-braided gunners from the Horse Artillery battery at Mount Edgecumbe, gaping lantern-jawed at the scene with their tunics unbuttoned. The gunners were vastly outnumbered by the parties of sailors in their dark broad-brimmed hats, the royal blue of their short jackets, and their white breeches. Bearded and sun-freckled, they watched the pageant before them with professional curiosity. At a trestle table set down on the grass of the Hoe, a row of frock-coated and bare-headed men with papers before them waited philosophically. These were the reporters of the London dailies whose accounts would be telegraphed within the hour for the next edition of The Times, the Globe, or the Morning Post.

  It was a little after seven o'clock when the murmuring in the crowd rose in intensity and a flurry of hands pointed and gestured. Rounding Great Mew from the east was a paddle-steamer, a trim little vessel with its dark hull and white paddle-boxes, its two buff funnels. In the stillness of the evening and the quiescent sea, the rhythm of its wheels carried as an audible pat-pat-pat to the watchers on the Hoe. Two flags flew from its mastheads. One was the White Ensign with the Cross of St George boldly marked. The other, recognized with a cheer by the onlookers, was the Royal Standard of England, the gold lions on their scarlet ground streaming bravely in the evening light.

  Conversation on the Hoe was obliterated by the sudden outburst of a Royal Marine band.

  Come, cheer up, my lads,

  'tis to glory we steer,

  To add something new to this wonderful year . . .

  This in turn was submerged in the booming of royal salutes from rival batteries, like so many clocks striking the hour in competition. The battery of the Citadel set off first, in reverberating billows of white smoke, then the Horse Artillery guns of Mount Edgecumbe. But most splendid of all were the salutes of HMS Hero, accompanied by the Ariadne, St George and Emerald. Beflagged and dressed overall, their cannon smoke rolled from one gun-port after another with successive precision. At the same time there was a well-drilled movement in the rigging.
The crews who had manned the ships' yards brandished their hats and roared three cheers for the Victoria and Albert, as the royal yacht dropped anchor in the Sound after her voyage from Osborne.

  An ornamental barge, rowed by sailors of the fleet, pulled out of the inner harbour and began to negotiate the armada of little yachts and pleasure vessels which filled the Sound. It drew alongside the gleaming black hull of the royal yacht and a file of senior military and naval commanders was helped over the paddle sponson, followed by the Mayor, the Recorder of Plymouth in wig and gown, and the city fathers with their address of welcome.

  In the crowd itself, every pocket spy-glass was trained on the Victoria and Albert. The Prince of Wales was not only on board but must show himself sooner or later. The young man's father, the Prince Consort, was also on board and might, perhaps, be glimpsed. It was said that Her Majesty, too, had come to see the eighteen-year-old heir to her throne on his way to the New World.

  The last of the evening sky faded, somewhere over the Cornish moors. Riding-lights and the oil-lit squares of open gun-ports illuminated the Channel fleet at anchor. On the royal yacht itself the grand saloon showed a curtained brilliance. Then the ornamental barge returned to shore with its cargo of dignitaries. The admiral's barge from HMS Hero crossed the harbour to the Victoria and Albert to take on its precious cargo and ferry him back to the towering hull of the flagship. The crowd began to drift from the Hoe and the ramparts of the Citadel. Late that night, the paddles of the royal yacht went astern, bearing the Prince Consort back to Osborne. In the dawn light, to the thunder of salutes from the Citadel and Mount Edgecumbe Park, the Hero put to sea under full sail and with smoke trailing from her black stumpy funnel. The ports were closed for safety over her ninety-one guns as she passed with her escort, the Ariadne, between the two lines of the Channel Squadron. Then, taking the lead, she remained at the head of the mighty fleet until the watchers on the ramparts saw that the last sails had dipped below the western horizon.