Ричард Вудмен: Under false colours

On tip-toe, Drinkwater stepped out on to the landing, closing the door behind him. Fagan stood in the adjacent doorway. Annie was clinging to him, stark naked. Fagan was pulling her arms from about his neck.

'Upon my soul, you've been riding a fine horse, sir,' Drinkwater said in a loud voice. Fagan looked round at him and finally disengaged himself as Annie slipped back into her room. 'Heard you thrown a few times as you went over the fences.'

'What's it to you?' Fagan turned, his expression darkly belligerent.

'Nothing sir, nothing, except it puts a fellow off his own gallop. Have a drink,' Drinkwater held out the bottle. 'Cool yourself...'

Fagan stared at Drinkwater, frowning. 'Who the hell are you?'

'Captain Waters at your service, sir. Master of a barque lying in the stream. Waiting for a wind.' Drinkwater stepped towards Fagan, putting up his left arm with its coat, cane and hat to catch Fagan's elbow in a gesture of assumed friendship. 'Got a damned good rate for my freight, if I can run it,' he rattled on. 'If I can persuade those jacks-in-office of the Custom House that it's for Sweden.' He threw back his head and laughed, feeling the resistance in Fagan's demeanour relax. They made their way to the head of the stairs.

Fagan paused at the top and turned to his accoster. Drinkwater smiled to cover his anxiety; Fagan's next remark would show Drinkwater whether he had the slightest chance of success in this mad enterprise.

Fagan's irritation at the untimely encounter appeared to have gone. He affected a degree of casual interest in Drinkwater's drunken gossip.

'But it ain't for Sweden, eh, Cap'n? That your drift?' There was the trace of a brogue there, Drinkwater noted as he nodded. He held out the gin bottle again. 'Here,' he said, 'drink to my good fortune,' and he finished the sentence with a laugh.

'So where are you taking it? Somewhere the Custom House men wouldn't like, eh?'

'Drink,' Drinkwater repeated, boldly banging the bottle into Fagan's barrel chest. The big Irishman continued to regard him through shrewd eyes. 'Go on, drink, wash that woman out of your mouth ... Customs Officers? God damn you, no, I'm on to bigger game than running a cargo to the damned French or the Dutch.' Drinkwater stopped suddenly and stared hard at Fagan, as though recovering his wits and regretting his free tongue.

'So where would you be taking your cargo, Cap'n, if not to the French?'

Drinkwater made to push past Fagan. He drew his mouth into a mirthless grin, as though suddenly nervously anxious. 'Ah, that'd be telling. 'Tis a secret ... a damned good secret ...' He was almost past Fagan, had his right foot on the top stair when he delivered the Parthian shot. 'And one the damned French would love to know ...'

Fagan's paw shot out and jerked Drinkwater's left shoulder back so that he struck the bannisters. 'Hey, damn you!'

'Don't push, Cap'n ... I'll have the drink you were kind enough to offer me, and then we should take a bite to eat. Rogering makes a man hungry, eh?' Fagan began to descend the stairs, his powerful fist digging into the scarred muscle of Drinkwater's right shoulder. Drinkwater felt himself propelled downwards. At the foot of the stairs he twisted free. 'I have a boat to catch ...'

'And what ship would you be going to?'

'That's my business, sir.'

'Oh, come now, Cap'n. All men are brothers in a house of pleasure. I'm only after a little light conversation. You were civil enough to be sure, when that wench upstairs had left you in a good humour. You're not mean enough to deny a fellow a companion over his breakfast.'

Fagan slapped him amiably on the back and Drinkwater was ironically aware that they had exactly reversed roles.

'I can easily find out your ship. I know your name and I can soon bribe a Customs man to show me your inward jerque note ... if I had a mind for such foolishness. But d'you see I'm a trifle out o' luck myself at the moment and, taking you for a man o' spirit, I was wondering if we might strike a deal. An investment in your cargo, perhaps, with a decent return on it, might set me up and save you a guinea or two of your own.' Fagan paused and Drinkwater pretended to consider the matter. Hearing their voices, Mrs Hockley had emerged from her salon to see if her customers were satisfied.

'I didn't know you gennelmen was acquainted,' she said, but Fagan took no notice and with his arm across Drinkwater's shoulders, thrust him out of the street door. 'Come,' he said, 'we'll discuss the matter over a bottle of porter and a decent beef pie.'

They had crossed the alley and Fagan was hammering on the locked door of the pie shop. Drinkwater looked up at the narrow strip of starlit sky above their heads. The wind was dying to a breeze.

A boy, woken by the noise, let them in and Fagan sent him back to his bed with a cuff. Moving with the ease of familiarity, Fagan led Drinkwater into a back kitchen where a large table and a black iron stove stood. The stove had a banked fire and Fagan, kicking it open, soon had a stump of candle guttering on the table. Then he drew half a pie from a meat-safe and cut two slices with a pocket knife. Turning aside he found two horn beakers and set them down.

'Come now, Cap'n, sit yerself down. Where's that bottle o' yours?'

Drinkwater meekly did as he was bid. 'How much were you thinking of risking, Mr ... ?'

'Gorman, Cap'n, Michael Gorman ... well now, how would, say, two hundred pound do; say at a five per cent return on completion o' the voyage, to be remitted by ... when would it be remitted?'

'It would be a single voyage, Mr Gorman. I'm not expecting a homeward freight. That depreciates my chance of profit, and there are risks, Mr Gorman, very great risks, and five per cent on two hundred, well ...' Drinkwater broke off and shrugged. Affecting lack of interest he took a bite at his slice of pie.

'Well, just supposing, and I'm not saying I will, but think of what it means to reducing your own capital risk ... you are risking your own capital in the venture, ain't you?'

'Would I take such risks for another?' Drinkwater asked, his mouth full.

'No, no, of course not. But just supposing I was to invest four hundred pounds, could I expect a return of five per cent?' Fagan leaned forward and Drinkwater met his eyes. 'I'm not saying I can raise the money, but if I could, would you shake on the deal?'

'I might.'

'Well what is the cargo? I must know ...'

'Of course, Mr Gorman,' Drinkwater said reasonably. 'A few stand of arms, greatcoats and military boots ...' Drinkwater watched the tiny, reactive muscles round Fagan's eyes. Leaning forward over the candle they showed clearly, twitching even as Fagan lowered his eyes in dissimulation.

'You'd be wanting something on account?' Fagan did not wait for an answer. 'I'll give you ten guineas now, against your written receipt, I've pen and paper to hand ...' Fagan rose and disappeared up a narrow staircase hidden behind a door. In a few minutes he was back. He threw the guineas on to the table and produced a pen and inkwell. The gold gleamed dully in the candle light. Drinkwater stared at it. It was a bribe, designed to disarm him for the next question. He took up the pen and dipped it.

'And where would these military boots be bound, Cap'n Waters?'

Drinkwater did not look up as he carefully wrote the receipt. 'To Russia, Mr Gorman. There's a great demand for English armaments and military stores in Russia.' He passed the receipt across the table and laid down the pen, looking directly at Fagan. 'I shouldn't wonder if the Tsar ain't considering some trouble, but that's no concern for the likes of us, is it now, Mr Gorman?' He stood and took up his cane. 'Do you bring the balance to Davey's chandlery at noon and I'll have a deed made out in your favour.' He put his hat on and held out his hand. 'I hope you profit from the venture, Mr Gorman.'