Hugh spat on the straw; the phlegm was mixed with blood. The misfire of the gun had cost him two of his teeth, as well as much of his cheek and the damage to his eye. The man in front of him seemed to be a philosopher, and the constant smell of blood was beginning to itch at him. He thought he could feel it like something alive on his skin, curling down his arms under his sleeves. His head throbbed, a drum that seemed to turn the world darker at every beat; the edges of his vision were hazy, scrabbled with pain and dull red flashes.
“That’s all fine, Shapin. Now tell me what you called me here to say.”
The man smiled at him, a smile of great contentment-joy, even. It shone through the dirt and stubble on his face, and the eyes seemed almost childlike.
“Oh yes, sir. Certainly, sir. This is it: your father, Captain, murdered a young girl. Fucked her, got her pregnant, then murdered her. Then, once your mother had pushed out an heir, and an extra son for good measure-that’s you, mate, the guarantee-he killed her too. Threw her downstairs right in front of me.”
The words dropped round and distinct like a string of pearls from between Shapin’s yellow shredded lips, but could not make themselves understood through the beat of the drum in Hugh’s brain. He spoke automatically, flatly.
“You’re lying.”
“No. First thing I’ve got straight in thirty years.” Shapin smiled again as if bestowing a blessing. He licked his lips, savoring the words. “Lord Thornleigh took a locket from the girl. Had his hair in it, and kept it just to show himself what he had done. Then your mother found it, and he killed her for knowing. It was in her hand when she died. I was there. That’s what I remembered out there in the smoke.” He looked as happy as a schoolboy praised for a well done sum. “I’d seen the girl wear the locket. I heard your mother scream as she fell, and saw Lord Thornleigh watching from above when I picked her up at the foot of the stairs. I saw her blood on her mouth, and the locket in her hand. Yet it was only today, lying there in the field with the grass and sky all above me that I thought of her again, and it all came clear.”
“You’re a liar. A thief.”
The joy on the man’s face washed away, leaving him spitting and red.
“I’m neither. Your father thought maybe I’d work it all out, and got rid of me before I did. Thirty years in this stinking place, an ocean away from him, then you rock up here, Captain. You. Little Master Hugh. I was ashamed to see you in my disgrace, at first. But I saw you across the camp and it all came running back. Then I realized, lying in the grass-you’re nothing. My blood is better than yours. You are a son of a murderous cunt, your family honor is a joke, your position a fake, you’re fucking poison, your bones aren’t fit to feed the dogs on. .”
He continued to talk, his words flinging up from below Hugh, as if he had dug up the devil himself. The drum in Hugh’s head seemed to pick up the rhythm of his speech; it was faster, louder. Hugh felt himself back in the haze of smoke, up to his knees in blood, his mother lying over the redoubt in her ballgown, her stomach shot away by a rebel flintlock, a young girl running through the grass toward his father who stood, pistol raised in front of him; there was the rebel he had stuck so hard he had been forced to push him off the end of his bayonet with his boot, only now the rebel had Hawkshaw’s face, and he was laughing at him, they were all laughing, toasting his father and his whore, laughing at him as he stumbled toward the young girl through the blood; he felt again the explosion by his face, the whip of hot metal knocking him back to the ground, back into the blood. It swam over him into his mouth and eyes, he floundered to be free, everything was red.
The beat slowed. He blinked, realized he had been kneeling, that his hands were on Shapin’s face, one around the back of his head, the other flattened over his nose and mouth. Shapin’s hand, which must have been clamped around his wrist, fell back. Hugh pulled his hands away and Shapin’s dead eyes stared up at him. Hugh extended his fingers, looked at the back of his hands: they shook. The drumbeat was gone. His brain was suddenly quiet, open.
Getting to his feet, he headed to the door. The fact that Wicksteed flinched as he passed was the only reason he noticed him there. They looked at each other for a moment-Hugh blank-eyed, Wicksteed open-mouthed-then Hugh was gone, his boots striking the steps to echo as he blundered out into the street.
The letter came three weeks later. His father had had a stroke, and his stepmother was pregnant and asked for his help. The letter must have been sent even before his own awkward congratulations had been received. His father’s health had lasted for barely three months of married life. His new mother expressed herself reasonably well, and the hand was more genteel than he had feared, knowing her reputation. He read it twice before putting on his uniform in best order and applying to his senior officer for leave. Had he been more himself, he would have noted, perhaps with sadness, the alacrity with which the request was granted, and a space found for him on the next ship to leave for Plymouth.
Standing in the gloom of the camp the evening before his departure, Hugh thought again of Alexander. The notion that his brother might be out in the world, free of Lord Thornleigh and his new wife, free of Shapin and the Hall, seemed to drop the smallest measure of comfort into his soul, and for a little while the nightmares whispered rather than roared through his head. The very last conversation they had had was hurried and incomplete, an embrace and whisper as Alexander left the house for the last time. His elder brother had been very white after the conversation with his father, and paused only to hold his brother for a second and say, “Get out of here, Hugh. Stay away from that man.” Hugh did his best, but his best was not good enough.
Wicksteed found him, as Hugh had felt he must at some point, the afternoon before he was due to sail. The man slipped up to him as he stood watching the ship that would take him home being loaded in the dock.
“Captain Thornleigh?”
Hugh shifted round and blinked at him. The slighter man was holding himself unnaturally still, his hands clasped in front of him.
“Wicksteed.”
“I hear you are to sail tomorrow. I am sorry to hear your father is unwell.”
Hugh said nothing.
“So you may even be Lord Thornleigh? Even now?” Wicksteed could hold his hands still, but his eyes still glittered.
“I have a brother.”
Wicksteed looked out at the ship as he said, “Not one anyone can lay their hands on, I hear.” Hugh did not reply. “Lord Thornleigh-there’s a title! Lord Thornleigh might be able to do whatever he wants in life, don’t you think? But then, perhaps even his son has always been free to do what he likes. Or think he can.”
Hugh felt his stomach tighten as he thought of those final moments with Shapin. He tried not to ask himself what Wicksteed might have seen. His silence seemed to encourage the man into further speech.
“But we must have friends in order to be able to act as we like, you know, Captain. To keep our secrets. To keep the family honor intact. To maintain our influence.”
Hugh reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill he had kept folded there since the Commander had agreed he should leave. He cleared his throat and stood up straight.
“I don’t quite understand you, Wicksteed. But I have this for you. In recognition of your services to the regiment.”
He put the note in Wicksteed’s hands. The man unfolded it and stared. Hugh waited to be thanked, then watched in surprise as he saw Wicksteed begin to shake. Bright spots of color stood out in his cheeks.
“Five pounds! How much love do you think that buys, Captain, in these days?” Hugh was shaken enough to step back. Wicksteed followed him, hissing into his face, “Is my loyalty worth only five pounds to you? With what I know? I know about the girl, I know your father is a murderer, and I know you are the same. Five pounds!”